


As The Water Grinds The Stone

by TheSummoningDark



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Goodnight is a mess of a human being, M/M, Origin Story, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 72,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8389342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSummoningDark/pseuds/TheSummoningDark
Summary: He'll embellish this meeting later, spin stories, turn it into some grand tale that becomes more elaborate with every retelling. But what he remembers of it later is just this one moment. Billy Rocks and Goodnight Robicheaux, from beginning to bitter end.





	1. time is like a bullet from behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greatdisorder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatdisorder/gifts).



> First things first: if you're just here for the porn, you want chapters 7, 9, 13, and 18. You're welcome.
> 
> Credit/blame as always to **greatdisorder** ; beta, copilot, shameless enabler.
> 
> I'm not american, so any errors of history and geography are my own. For what I did get right I would like to thank google, google maps, wikipedia, wikibooks, the University of Texas online historic maps collection, the JF Ptak Science Books blog post "How Much Was 50 Cents Worth in 1876?", and a genuinely startling number of forum threads of civil war reenactors arguing about historical accuracy.
> 
> Title from the song _Bullet_ by Covenant.

Over the years, Goodnight's become numb to the whispers that follow him around, the distorted echoes of stories that have already turned to legend. 

If he had much in the way of pride left, he might be above swallowing how much he hates his reputation for long enough to take advantage of it. But then, if he had much in the way of pride left, perhaps he might not hate his reputation quite so much. He certainly doesn't have much else left to work with beside it. It's a useful thing sometimes, to be Goodnight Robicheaux, sending men who these days could kill him without a breaking a sweat backing down with their tails between their legs. A fight avoided is as good as a fight won. It's certainly better than a fight lost.

He's quite certain that he once had more pride than that too, but that time seems far distant now. His reputation in any case is built on doing so much worse than taking advantage of the awe and fear of those who don't know better. There's blood enough on his hands that he doesn't see how useful half truths could possibly blacken his soul any further. He doesn't have much guilt or shame left to spare for something so comparatively petty, but he's just enough of a hypocrite to hate the sound of the stories they tell about him while still playing his own part in perpetuating them. 

Much of his life, it seems, is now predicated on pretending to be someone he isn't. Stepping into the larger-than-life caricature of his legendary alter ego is perhaps a margin less pathetic than the alternative of trying to remember how to be the man he thinks he was, once. Before.

He can still shoot, when some rush of visceral panic doesn't root him in place and set his hands to uselessly trembling. He's still wily enough that bringing in hapless would-be outlaws for whatever petty price is on their head hasn't killed him yet. Nonetheless, there's an inevitability to the path he's on. He can see it laid out before him as clear as a paved road; the limbo he's been drifting through ever since the end of the war, devoid of purpose, continuing steadily downward until the day when he freezes up at the wrong moment, when some man too young and stupid to be afraid isn't cowed by his name any more. He can envisage that end so clearly that he can taste something like bitter disappointment at the back of his throat every time it doesn't happen.

Sometimes the way his finger freezes on the trigger now is the only thing that keeps him from hastening the end himself. Of all the acts of cowardice his weakened spirit has seen fit to visit on him, that one is perhaps the hardest to stomach. But if nothing else it's deserved. They called him the Angel of Death, and perhaps that's why his nightmares take the form they so often do: the true incarnation of the title to which he was only ever a pretender, a pale imitation, poised to punish him for his hubris. The stories they tell of him grew around grains of truth, close enough still to the rough shape of what happened that he can't call them fiction. But to hear them whispered by children who never saw war feels akin to hearing blind men telling tales of the light of the sun.

There's honour of a sort in meeting a man on even terms, in looking him in the eye as you kill him. So what can there be other than shame then in the way he killed his enemies, silent and unseen from a hundred yards out? None of them had a fighting chance. Most never even knew he was there until it was already too late.

War makes monsters of all men, he's heard it said. He knows it for the lie it is. It certainly didn't make monsters of the boys who died trembling and terrified in stinking rifle pits, torn apart by artillery fire before time and trauma ever had the chance to harden them. Some might think him proof of the proverb from the way his reputation precedes him, but he knows that for a lie as well. It made a mask of the man he used to be, and a coward of the creature hiding behind it.

Still, he endures, anticipating his end but lacking the nerve to truly go seeking it. The seasons turn and he drifts onwards, until he's no longer running from his fate or running toward it, but simply running for fear of what might happen if he stops. Acquaintances come and go, his only constant companion the sick restlessness of a hunted man burning across the back of his neck. He keeps his flask topped up with whatever he can get his hands on, and tries with varying degrees of success to drown the nightmares. 

And then inevitably there comes a day where he meets a man who hears his name and doesn't blink, who tilts his head with a trace of idle curiosity but appears otherwise unmoved, and Goodnight feels the relief of a weary traveller cresting the last hill above their destination wash over him. The end of the road at last. He lifts his chin and makes no move to reach for his gun, at peace for one fleeting moment in the fatalism so many have mistaken for confidence, and waits.

The shot he's expecting never comes. As it will later turn out, this is only the first of many surprises the man he'll shortly come to know as Billy Rocks has in store for him.

He'll embellish this meeting later, spin stories, turn it into some grand tale that becomes more elaborate with every retelling. But what he remembers of it later is just this one moment; of standing on the precipice, on the very edge of the end he's seen ahead of him for so long, and his very own angel of death choosing not to pull the trigger.

Subsequently, mundane reality closes in again, and the rest of that first meeting is an oddly prosaic thing. He introduces himself again, bemused by the rare experience of doing so to someone to whom the name apparently means nothing. Receiving an introduction in return turns out to be far from a formality. The stranger winces slightly at Goodnight's game attempt to repeat back the name he's given, cajun drawl laying the emphasis in all the wrong places, and accedes to an anglicised version instead with with the faintly exasperated equanimity of one well used to worse. By the time they've made it that far, two facts have become thoroughly cemented in Goodnight's mind. Firstly, that even years ago at his very best, he might well not have been capable of collecting this particular bounty. And secondly, that he's not especially sure he wants to.

It's not the end of the road in quite the way he'd been anticipating, but it's an end nonetheless, and the start of something entirely new; an unexpected road branching off, skirting along the edge of the cliff up ahead rather then plunging straight down the face of it. For the first time in a long time, the path laid out before him looks uncertain again, the inescapability of that end suddenly called into question. And for the first time in a long time, he isn't walking it alone. It's a matter of convenience at first that has them riding out together, with the vague intention - on Goodnight's part at least - of parting ways at the next town. A lone traveller, after all, is more vulnerable to trouble on the road. 

It's a quiet journey, enough so that he's left with the distinct impression that his companion is not entirely comfortable conversing in English, but even mostly silent company is an indulgence he hasn't had in a long time. They make the two-day ride with the horses mostly at a jingling trot, the sigh of the wind through wild grass punctuated by the rhythmic thud of hooves, and part ways with little more than nods of acknowledgement at the edge of the town, a charming little hovel by the name of Bear Creek. And that might have been the end of it, if not for the fact that the town in question only has one hotel. As it turns out the proprietor is a rather backwards sort, and by the time Goodnight has hitched his horse and acquainted himself with the surroundings, he's already in the process of refusing to rent a room to Billy in rather impolite terms.

If he was expecting anger in response, by all appearances he'll be disappointed; while anyone might reasonably have lost their temper, Billy looks frankly bored by the situation. But the man's manner is certainly more than enough to spark a flare of irritation in Goodnight. A name is all he has to trade on these days, but more often than not it's enough, and impulse has him stepping forward to interject. He takes rare satisfaction in watching the man pale as he introduces himself.

"I hope," he says, giving a smile that's all teeth and no warmth, "That it won't be any further trouble for my friend and I to take rooms at your fine establishment."

The proprietor blanches a little further as his meaning sinks in. His eyes flicker sideways to Billy, who is watching the proceedings with an air of mild interest, and he mumbles something that might, in poor light, have passed for an apology. His eyes remain mullishly lowered as he takes their coin and hands out keys in return. 

The bartender in the saloon across the road turns out to be a rather more hospitable fellow, or at the very least more concerned with the colour of the money being handed to him than the colour of the hand offering it, and it's a straightforward matter to exchange another few coins for a bottle of moderately drinkable whiskey and two glasses. It's early enough in the evening that the saloon is quiet, the few other patrons present barely sparing them a glance as they take a table.

"...who are you?" Billy asks eventually, considering him over the rim of his glass.

"I don't see that introducing myself a third time will clarify anything," Goodnight replies, purposely light, as he raises his own glass to his lips. Billy shakes his head.

"Not your name," he corrects, just a trace of impatience colouring the flatness of his tone. "Who you are."

Well that's always a more complicated question to answer, isn't it. He's not sure some days that he knows the answer himself any more. "Someone with a reputation to trade on," is the response he finds in the end. If Billy had been hoping for something a little less cryptic, he doesn't show any particular sign of it. He gives a small shrug and sips his drink, apparently finding that sufficient.

Accepting the way of things with an eloquent shrug is, he'll come to discover, something of a habit with Billy. There's a matter of fact air to the way he deals with the world that's rather refreshing, working with what he has in front of him without wasting his breath blustering or complaining. It's a rare trait. Most men talk too much. He's fully aware that he's one of them, skating by on charm and an easy grin and the looming spectre of his reputation. Billy, on the other hand, prefers to listen, repetition ingraining the sounds of an alien language into memory. However many years may pass, he'll never not be a stranger here in a nation often hostile to those it sees as other. There's a pang of regret for that, of indignation on behalf of someone who's made nothing but a good impression on him in the time they've known each other. But if nothing else it's something - possibly the only thing - that he can bring to the tentative alliance they're building; the ability simply to fit in here, to open doors for both of them that might remain closed to Billy were he by himself. 

That's the point he chooses to lead with when, four days into the ride from Bear Creek to something a little more like civilisation, he offhandedly proposes the idea of sticking together a little more long-term. Billy, in the act of adding more wood to their campfire, takes the time to finish what he's doing before sitting back on his heels and giving Goodnight a long, assessing look. His expression is inscrutable, but there's a glimmer of something that might be cautious interest in his eyes.

"What's in it for you?" he asks eventually. There's a stray piece of kindling still in one of his hands, some deadwood twig. The way his thumbnail scratches away at the bark clinging to it is the only outward indication he gives of being anything but completely calm and at ease.

"In addition to the sparkling after-dinner conversation?" Goodnight responds, raising his eyebrows. He shrugs. "Another pair of hands and eyes are always useful. And frankly I'm bored of travelling alone."

It's all true enough, for what it is. And it's certainly a sight easier to explain than the almost mythical image burned into his mind of looking his own end in the eye only to have it shrug and put up its guns. He can give all the explanations he likes, but in his heart he knows that there's no logic to this. On his part at least it's a visceral decision made by some deep instinct that cares little for reason.

Billy snaps the twig in half and tosses in into the crackling campfire. "Okay," he says. If Goodnight had hoped for some kind of elaboration, after a few seconds pass in silence it's clear that he isn't going to get any. _Nothing wasted_ , he thinks, considering his companion in the flickering light of the fire. Not a movement, not a bullet, not a word. He tries to picture himself moving through the world with that kind of calm self-assurance and finds that he can't. He's been teetering on the edge of god only knows what for far too long to imagine what having his balance again would feel like.

Slowly the fire burns down to embers, smouldering on through the night. By the time dawn comes and they're ready to move on again, there's nothing left but ashes.


	2. beating like a bass drum time goes by

Their burgeoning partnership turns out to flow more easily even than Goodnight's most optimistic expectations. Both of them being well used to travelling alone, naturally there are wrinkles to be smoothed out, but on the whole they settle into their new arrangement with very little drama. It helps that money comes in easier now, greasing the way and making up for any minor irritations; two men aren't so much more expensive to provision than one, and with two gunhands they can go after more lucrative bounties. Throw in the unfamiliar luxury of a second pair of friendly eyes, of someone to trade watches with when they're in dangerous territory, and all of a sudden life becomes a great deal easier.

The longer they travel together, the more certain Goodnight becomes that he's never met anyone quite like Billy before. His ability to calmly accept things for what they are is merely the tip of a remarkable iceberg of sheer pragmatism. He has an enviable sense of self-assurance, untarnished by the rudeness and dismissal he meets with far too often, and a poker face that would put the great riverboat gamblers to shame. To his own mild chagrin he finds himself developing a genuine sense of admiration for this singular man, the beginnings of a camaraderie he hasn't felt in far too long. He'd almost forgotten how pleasant it could be to share a companionable silence with agreeable company.

As they become more comfortable in each others' company, by degrees Billy begins to talk more freely, revealing both a sly and understated sense of humour and a far more fluent command of the English language than Goodnight would ever have guessed when they first met. He shrugs when Goodnight brings it up. "It's useful to be underestimated," he says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Goodnight, who has been surviving on being overestimated for a long time now, needs to take a moment to wrap his head around that concept. "As an approach, it seems to involve a lot of being disrespected."

Billy grins, a fleeting expression startling in its rarity. The change it makes to his face is quite incredible, years shaved away by the sudden glimmer of wry amusement in his eyes. "You think I'm going to get respect here no matter what I do?"

"...I suppose not, no," Goodnight concedes. Even hearing the logic of it laid out so simply though, he can't quite make that final step. It's not in his nature to look a cruel inevitability in the face unflinching and grin the way it is for Billy. Of all the qualities he has discovered in his companion, this is perhaps the one he envies most and understands least.

They continue on the same road as the chill of winter fades from the air and gives way to the first hints of the scorching heat of the approaching summer, bound together by nothing but convenience and a vague disinclination to part ways just yet. They split their takings equally - something Billy had led with as a condition and then seemed mildly wrong-footed not to have to argue further for - and take care of their own provisioning separately for the most part, save where buying in bulk earns them a better deal. As arrangements go, it's an undemanding one.

For all its benefits though, travelling with a companion brings complications as well. Goodnight is reminded sharply of that fact the first night he wakes panting and trembling from a nightmare, his heart pounding fit to crack his ribs as he struggles to break free of the clinging tendrils of panic and find something, _anything_ , to anchor him in reality. The dim, bloody firelight is scant comfort as the darkness closes in around him, choking, thick and heavy as the silence of the grave—

There's a stir of movement nearby and he jumps like a scalded cat, startled out of his frozen state by the realisation that the shadowy spectre on the other side of the dying fire is no phantom. Shame burns sharply across his cheeks at being caught in such a state, shaking and whimpering in his blankets like an infant; there's some futile excuse caught in his throat, but he can't quite force it out past the suffocating tightness of panic still wrapped around him like a steel band.

Billy, unperturbed, passes him a cigarette.

The smoke is sickly sweet as it coils around him in the chill night air, ash and embers spiralling down from the lit end as he tries and fails to still the shaking of his hands. The judgement he's expecting, the questions, never come. They share the cigarette in silence, breath steaming in the air and mingling with the smoke as Billy prods the campfire back to life with a long stick.

"Nearly dawn," is his only comment, offhanded as he eventually stands and crosses to his pack to dig out something for breakfast. "No point sleeping again." And that, apparently, is that.

That lack of judgement, the acceptance of the way of things without the need to attach some deeper meaning, is far from the most curious thing he's noticed about his companion. But he hadn't realised it was something he craved so desperately until suddenly it was in front of him, to have the company of someone who looks at him and sees neither a legend nor a monster; who can see his weaknesses and flaws for what they are without any sense either of disappointment or vindication. He doesn't know what it is that Billy sees when he looks at him, but it's a rare comfort to know that it's built not on story and rumour, but simply on the time they've spent travelling together.

Gradually, he revises and refines his own impression of the other man. What he'd first taken for stoicism, he slowly begins to recognise instead as a peculiar subtlety, every reaction quietly understated. From Billy, a fleeting quirk of the lips might as well be a hearty laugh, a dryly raised eyebrow a lengthy and eloquent speech on the idiocy of a given statement. It's hard to say if he guards his expressions a touch less carefully now, or if this is simply Goodnight learning how to read him. Both, perhaps.

Their road winds on together, through stubborn little frontier towns and desolate trails. The first true blazing day of summer sees them riding into a ramshackle mining town, elevated marginally above the status of a camp by time and the relative longevity of the strike. The wooden lean-tos aren't much of a step above tents, but if nothing else there's a saloon. The boarding house can scarcely be dignified by the name, but by dint of possessing beds and a roof, it manages to be just barely more appealing a prospect than spending another night sleeping on the ground.

As they let the horses set their own pace down the last stretch of narrow, rocky trail to the town itself, they come upon a crowd gathered in around a pen at the side of the road just outside the town, shouts and jeers punctuated by occasional bursts of gunshots. The air is rowdy rather than tense, enough so that there's clearly no actual combat occurring. Billy and Goodnight exchange glances, then shrugs, and tie their horses up at the corral before ambling over to see what all the fuss is about.

They join the edge of the crowd, curious, and it quickly becomes clear that what they've happened upon here is an impromptu quick-draw contest. It seems like an easy way to get some poor fool perforated, particularly when the participants are a little drunk on top of being none too skilled in the first place, but men in these little mining towns have to make their own entertainment somehow. Certainly there's precious little in the way of female company anywhere nearby. Personally he doesn't see why swallowing their pride and helping each other out a little wouldn't be preferable to putting unnecessary bulletholes in the scenery and in each other, but evidently, this is a viewpoint which puts him in a minority of one.

The competition is, to put it tactfully, less than inspiring. To dwell upon the frankly mediocre display of speed occurring would be to do a disservice to the achievements of those men who fail to hit their target at all, bullets flying wide to kick up dust further back. The crowd, showing commendable sense, are staying well clear of the competitors' line of fire.

"Tragic, isn't it, what passes for a quick draw in some place?" Goodnight murmurs.

The corner of Billy's mouth curls, amusement glimmering in his eyes as he glances sideways. "I could do better blindfolded," he says, offhanded and without a trace of bravado. Goodnight doesn't doubt it for a second.

In point of fact, he's confident enough in it that he'd happily stake every penny he has to his name on the notion. "...would you care to test that proposition?" he asks, a trace of mischief in his eyes as he grins. Billy arches an eyebrow at him.

"What did you have in mind?" 

Goodnight's grin widens. "Ah, wait for it..."

The lull in the action he's waiting for doesn't take long to come up, the fine gentleman organising the contest pausing to sing the praises of the current reigning champion and challenge any of the crowd who thought themselves capable to attempt to best him. He's reasonably quick on the draw, and at the very least competent enough to have hit the target every time, which is more than some of the participants had managed. But the bar in this instance is not set particularly high, and Goodnight has a great deal of faith in his companion's abilities. 

He straightens as he steps forward, raising his chin and pitching his voice to carry as he announces, "I'll wager my associate here could out-draw your man."

There are a few startled glances and a ripple of murmurs, mostly from those drunk enough not to have previously taken note of the new arrivals. Their champion gives Billy a dismissive once-over and snorts. "You sure you wanna be throwin' words like 'wager' around?" 

Goodnight gives him a beatific smile. "Well, now that you come to mention it," he replies easily, "I do believe I'll match whatever any man here wishes to put in the pot."

That provokes renewed murmurs of interest, and a cooking pot — mercifully clean — is quickly pressed into service as the titular pot. The erstwhile organiser takes it upon himself to count it, the audience watching closely to make sure no coins go disappearing up his sleeves. "Fifty-three dollars," he announces eventually, to whoops and whistles of approval from the crowd. It's not _quite_ everything Goodnight has, but it's close enough to have some little, oft-ignored voice at the back of his mind advising caution. They're committed now though, and with a small sigh he removes his hat and counts out the appropriate amount. He sets it down beside the pot before taking a few steps away, back toward where Billy is watching the proceedings with an air of idle curiosity.

"I hope I haven't just given away all of our money?" Goodnight inquires lightly.

"Your money," Billy corrects, deadpan.

Goodnight snorts, feigning affront. "What happened to equal shares?"

"You give away your money, that's your business," Billy replies with a shrug. He shakes his head, a trace of a smile on his lips. "Trust me."

The crowd yells encouragement and abuse and assorted noise as they take their positions, Goodnight taking up station at the sidelines as Billy sheds his coat and settles into an easy, relaxed stance opposite his opponent. There's an air of calm about him as though prepared to patiently wait forever for the signal to shoot, seemingly untouched by the tension of the moment, his hands loose by his sides. The benefits of being underestimated indeed.

In the end, it's a matter of seconds. The organiser throws his hand up with a shout, and suddenly a blur of motion, Billy draws and fires with the lethal fluidity of a striking snake. The defending champion's target rattles to the ground an indisputable half a beat later. There are few shouts and jeers, but mostly there is surprised quiet, and Goodnight wastes no time in moving in on the pot before anyone gets any bright ideas regarding fair play or lack thereof and superior numbers.

"Hey!" the dethroned champion shouts, embarrassment still flushing angrily across his face. "You ain't just walkin' outta here with our money! Who the hell do you think you are?"

There's a swell of angry mutters of agreement from the crowd as Goodnight draws out the process of transferring their full takings into the pot, handing it over to Billy before fastidiously resituating his hat on his head. His smile is broad and easy when he finally turns, taking full advantage of his uncanny gift for commanding the attention of the crowd as he closes the distance between them in a few easy, unhurried steps. "I do apologise for being so rude as to neglect to introduce myself," he says, eyes hard above a charming smile as he extends a hand. "Goodnight Robicheaux."

The crowd's noise dies away as the unfortunate man, abruptly deflated, gingerly reaches out to shake the extended hand as though not entirely confident of getting all of his fingers back. "I, uh..." He swallows hard. "I didn't mean any disrespect, sir."

"Of course you didn't, son," Goodnight agrees magnanimously, giving his hand a companionable pat before releasing it. "Just see it doesn't happen again." He doesn't glance back as he walks away, stride confident and head held high, wearing his role as completely as any actor. His reputation has its perks. 

Billy gives him a somewhat bemused look as they liberate their winnings from the borrowed cooking pot, but elects not to pass comment in front of their audience. "Moving on?" he asks instead, indicating the disgruntled but presently cowed crowd with a tilt of his head.

"Best not to tempt fate," Goodnight agrees, setting the pot aside. With a grin he half turns and tips his hat to the miners. "Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure." 

They maintain their unhurried pace, but nonetheless they waste no time in mounting up and riding out again, bound for the next stop on the road. It's early enough in the day that it won't be difficult to put a respectable distance between them and any sore losers by nightfall. The boarding house didn't have the most luxurious look about it anyway, and the extra money in their pockets goes along way to making up for the prospect of another night of campfire rations and sleeping on the hard ground.

"I do believe that was the easiest fifty dollars I ever made," Goodnight comments, seat loose and easy in his saddle. 

"Twenty-five dollars," Billy corrects mildly. Goodnight laughs and obligingly counts out Billy's share, drawing his horse in close alongside to present it with a flourish. Billy rolls his eyes at the theatrics, but there's a trace of a smile curling his lips as he accepts the wad of notes. The quiet draws out between them, easy and companionable, and he'll be damned if the prospect of cold hard ground and campfire cuisine doesn't feel a hell of a lot like a win.


	3. I run for cover just like you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy hump day everyone! Enjoy the new chapter. For the next few weeks at least, updates will be on Wednesdays and Sundays.

Time passes in that strange, languorous way it has, days drawing out while months rush by like a mountain river. They grow more comfortable in their partnership as the seasons turn, and by now what they learn of each other is not broad strokes of character, but fine details of quirk and habit. He learns that Billy will gamely eat meat of the most dubious provenance, but his nose wrinkles at the smell of fresh milk; that if he spends more than a few minutes checking over and caring for his knives by the campfire at night, particularly if they haven't seen battle that day, it's a sign that he's in a poor mood. He couldn't have said what little pieces of himself he's giving away in return, but he doesn't doubt that it's happening regardless.

He learns that he's not the only one who has nightmares. Billy's are, characteristically, less dramatic; frozen still with knuckles white where they grip the blankets, breath coming in short, harsh pants in the way of a wounded lookout trying desperately not to give away his position by moaning in pain. He never cries out, but sometimes there are words caught up on his lips, barely more than a breath of a whisper. And if Goodnight notices that certain combinations of syllables come up with a predictable regularity, well, he can recognise an entirely useless observation when he makes it. It's hardly as though there's anyone other than Billy of whom he could ask their meaning. That's a conversation he has more wit than to try to start. 

Instead he does no more and no less than what's been done for him. In silence, he passes Billy a lit cigarette, and in silence they share it.

If it's near enough dawn, usually at that point they stir the fire up enough to prepare something hot for breakfast, and have struck camp and are ready to move on again by full daylight. Otherwise they'll pass the flask back and forth too, maybe talk a little about something inane and wholly unrelated, until whichever of them it is whose nightmares are keeping them up feels bold enough to chance sleeping again. Over time it becomes routine, almost mundane, this strange little ritual they share in the dark.

By the time the weather fades down into winter chill again, marking near a year since they first met, it's quite clear that barring some significant change in circumstances they won't be parting ways again soon. There's an ease between them now, from what had been a tentative alliance held together by little more than convenience and circumstance, to something more like a genuine partnership of mutual loyalty and respect. It's been long enough that he might have thought he'd no longer be capable of recognising the sensation, but here they are, and damned if they haven't gone and become something like friends. And if occasionally some atrophied part of his soul has a fleeting wistful want for something more...well, that's no-one's concern but his.

As time passes and they get to know each other a little better, it takes him a long time to realise that there was one specific facet of his initial impression in which he was particularly wrong; Billy _does_ have a temper. He thinks he can be forgiven for his mistake. He's never known anyone else whose anger burns quite as coldly as Billy's does, contained and unassuming as a keg of dry powder. He doesn't stir himself for petty slights or insults — indeed, one so forced to constantly tolerate them must be well and truly numbed to it — but when truly provoked, he can be merciless.

Goodnight doesn't fully understand just what that means until their road takes them a little further north than they usually stray. Billy by all accounts has good reason to want to keep a healthy distance between him and the nearest Northern Pacific line, and Goodnight's name tends to evoke a very different kind of reaction closer to the border states; it suits them both fairly well to stay within spitting distance of Mexico. However, it's always easy for intentions to go astray on the road. It's a simple matter of an unexpected winter storm at first, and a day's travel lost to the rain. And then of course it unfolds into a three-day detour to find a safer place to cross a river too swollen to ford, and then further to avoid a hillside road locals warn them is prone to landslides after storms...and then, quite by accident, they find themselves into Kansas.

Kansas is not a place Goodnight particularly wants to be. Lawrence is still burned into people's memories.

Their days are quieter now. For all that Goodnight might not have made any particular attempt to avoid trouble not even that long ago, if he provokes it now it won't just be his life that's in danger. Billy, already inclined to be quieter when they're in unfamiliar company, follows his cues. The sudden silence catches him in a way he's not quite prepared for, leaving him feeling slightly off balance. He hadn't realised until it stopped just how accustomed he'd become to the relative ease of conversation between them, the way Billy talks more freely when there's no-one else there to listen. He finds he misses it.

They go carefully and keep their heads down. Goodnight keeps his mouth shut and the fleurs-de-lis on his lapels covered; Billy, accepting the necessity of it in that matter of fact way of his, does the talking when they need to take rooms or replenish their supplies. It's a tense and uncomfortable period for both of them, and while they might well have gone less carefully and not encountered trouble, it's not a risk Goodnight is particularly inclined to take. By degrees they make their way back toward more neutral territory, and when they finally cross over the state line, for the first time in what feels like forever he can breathe again. 

By the time the sun starts to slip down in the sky, they've crested the hill above a fair-sized town, and finding a room for the night seems less a priority than finding a friendly saloon in which to blow off some pent-up steam. Nothing tangible has changed, nothing but an invisible line drawn down a map, and yet still the air seems lighter here.

He should know better than to let his guard down. But the last few weeks have left that familiar hunted feeling prickling at the base of his skull with renewed urgency, in dire need of a healthy dousing in whiskey to quiet it. And they're in _Missouri_ for christ's sake, so of course he relaxes a little more than is probably wise, drinking a little too much and talking a little too loudly and freely. Which might have been fine had they not been sharing the saloon with a few strapping young men who are also perhaps a little drunker than is wise, and more to the point, might as well have bled union blue. They're ornery drunk and spoiling for a fight, and with that particular chip on their shoulders, Goodnight's accent would probably have been enough to earn him a beating all by itself. His name, however, is another matter entirely.

He's prepared to deal with whatever comes of this, be it a little more blood on his hands and his conscience, or his trigger finger seizing up again and his road finally ending here in this smoky saloon. Angry-eyed men looking at him in contempt and calling him a murderer is easier to bear than the awe and admiration he receives further south. Just as he's willing to take advantage of his reputation where he can, he's prepared to pay the price of it where he has to. What he's _not_ prepared for, however, is Billy stepping up to flank him, deceptively still and calm. The glances shot his way are cursory, dismissive, their new friends still focused on their real target. As critical tactical errors go, it's not one many are ever given a chance to recover from.

The first man swings, wild and clumsy. Goodnight ducks under it and headbutts him; there's a satisfying crunch and pained yell, followed by a bright gush of blood. And then someone throws a chair, and from there it's a blur of noise and instinct that's impossible to follow in the moment. He gets another good hit in before someone's knee drives powerfully into his ribs and he staggers, winded, pain flaring out from the point of impact. His arm is wrenched back, throwing him further off balance, and he takes a hard blow to the face before he can catch his footing well enough to twist away.

With a roar of pain and rage their broken-nosed friend pulls his gun, too far away to do anything about it but too close to leave a hope in hell of him missing the shot, ugly triumph in his eyes as he cocks the pistol. But Billy's faster. In a gunfight, Billy is unquestionably one of the quickest and surest draws he's seen in a long time. But while at range he's excellent, in close quarters he's _unparalleled_. He moves like something more than human, fluid and sure-footed and fearless. His fingers close around the man's wrist with the deadly speed of a striking snake, yanking his arm up to have the shot discharging uselessly into the ceiling, even as with his other hand he draws a knife.

The sight of their ringleader hitting the dirty saloon floor with the wet, bloody thump of newly butchered meat has the rest of the drunken combatants freezing in place. It's as good an opening as they're likely to get to make a break for it, spilling out into the cold night air and making straight for where their horses are tethered as the commotion kicks up again behind them. It seems that they've well and truly worn out their welcome, and it would be wise to be on the road again before someone decides to get the sheriff involved, or gather up some friends for that more personal touch of revenge.

If the fight had gone a long way to abruptly sobering him up, the chill night air rushing by as they ride hard out of town finishes the job. The moon is waxing, not quite full, providing light enough to ride by without immediately breaking their necks as the lamps of the town behind fall away. About a mile out of town they slow to a more cautious canter. It doesn't feel like much of a getaway, but any pursuit that might be inclined to come after them will be similarly impeded by the darkness. All they have to do is put enough distance behind them so as to not be easily caught. Fleeing in earnest can wait until they have daylight.

They slow further still when they leave the road, sweeping a broad enough arc through the countryside that anyone attempting to follow the direction from which they'd left town will be disappointed. After joining the trail again they follow it southward for a spell, and eventually turn off to make camp far enough back that they aren't visible to any passers by. They daren't risk a fire; it would be a shame to go to all the effort of throwing off any pursuit only to give away their position by the light. So much for blowing off steam. It's going to be a tense and cold night. 

There's no danger of snowfall tonight at least, but the chill only seems to bite all the deeper for the clear skies, the stars glittering coldly above them. In the absence of a fire they do what they can to preserve what little heat they have, sitting shoulder to shoulder with one of the horses as a grudging back rest, blankets parted just enough to allow them to pass a flask back and forth. It's not the most comfortable night he's ever passed. But then, nor is it the least.

There's a lingering discomfort beyond the physical though in the inescapable reality of what just happened. He should be nothing but relieved to have left with his life, especially knowing that he might well not have without Billy at his back. And yet...he can't pretend those men weren't justified in their anger, in seeking their revenge. Goodnight is a consummate liar, but to his lasting regret, he's never quite mastered the trick of lying to himself; if he'd met his end in that saloon, it might not have gone unmourned, but nor would it have been undeserved.

"On the whole," Goodnight says, breath steaming in the air, "That could have gone better." There's a trace of apology in his tone, for the fact that they're out here in the cold instead of gently transitioning from saloon to hotel room. A bed and a roof are not luxuries they have so often as to be able to pass them up lightly.

Beside him, Billy snorts, and passes the flask back over. "Drunks start fights. It happens."

The sidelong glance Goodnight casts him is dubious. They're both well aware that it wasn't so simple as a random barroom brawl, not when their belligerent friends were anything but shy about the exact cause and nature of their grudge. "You must know who I am by now," he says after a pregnant pause. Most men talk too much, but Billy listens, and there's no earthly way he could possibly have remained deaf to the stories that swirl in Goodnight's wake like smoke for this long.

Billy watches him for a long moment; measured, considering. "I've heard about who you were," he replies. "I know who you are."

Icy dread crawls down his spine for that thought, that someone whose regard has come to mean a great deal to him might truly have seen through the persona he wears to the craven thing hiding behind it. And yet...he has a peculiar sense that's not what Billy means. There's some automatic dismissal on his lips, some offhanded piece of self-deprecation to assuage his discomfort, but it seems a disservice to the moment they find themselves in to voice it. He has no earthly idea what he could possibly have done to earn this kind of clear-eyed, unflinching acceptance, but more than anything else he wants to be worthy of it. Certainly he has no intention of disrespecting what he's been given by flippantly dismissing it.

The sudden flare of a struck match is brilliant in the darkness, the flame cupped in Billy's hands as he lights a cigarette. Shaking the match out, he tosses it aside and inhales deeply, the embers of the lit end glowing bright. Haloed in smoke and lit by moonlight, anyone with eyes to see would have to concede that he's breathtaking.

Thoughts such as these are becoming something of a recurring problem for Goodnight. If it were just some shallow attraction it would be easier to ignore; if he'd simply glimpsed Billy across some saloon and been struck for a moment by the cut of his jaw and the line of his throat, the fineness of his features and the dark fall of his hair, he could have dismissed it as a passing fancy and moved on. Even if here and now it were nothing but an appreciation for the man's undeniable handsomeness, that too would be easier to bear. But christ, there's affection bound up in it, genuine _fondness_ , to say nothing of the respect and trust and loyalty they've earned from each other a hundred times over in the past year. Shallow attraction would be easier to ignore, but in the privacy of his own thoughts, he can admit to himself that he's embarassingly infatuated.

An admission which leaves him...nowhere, really. With no means of ridding himself of this attraction, and no intention of attempting to act upon it, he has little choice beside continuing as he has. He has no intention of complicating the only worthwhile relationship in his life for the fleeting hope at something likely unattainable. It's hardly a sacrifice to content himself with what he already has when it's so much more than he thought possible.

By the time morning comes, bringing with it a little more warmth and light enough to ride out again, his ribs have taken to creaking ominously and there's a swelling along his cheekbone that he doesn't doubt has blossomed in impressive shades of bruise. Billy for his part appears superficially undamaged, but he's noticeably careful of his left shoulder as he mounts his horse. Of course that could simply be a souvenir of their somewhat cramped and awkward sleeping arrangements the previous night. Lord knows he's aching in places that have little to do with the fight. He's getting to be too old for this. 

"South?" Billy inquires rhetorically, nudging his horse into motion.

"South," Goodnight agrees, giving his own reins a flick. "It's too damn cold up here anyway."


	4. do you hear the city waking up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some French crops up in this chapter. The relevant translations:
> 
>  _"Nous-autres, on est pas après parler mon langue."_ \- roughly, "We aren't speaking my language." To forestall the inevitable corrections: yes I know it isn't correct in standard French. It's a colloquial construction which, as far as I can tell, is unique to Cajun French (it also occurs in Scots Gaelic, but that's another matter entirely). A more literal translation would be "all of us, we're not after speaking my language".
> 
>  _"La Patria"_ \- "The Motherland", i.e. France.

Their trail back southward is a winding one, taking them first into Arkansas at its northwest extreme in the Ozarks, and crossing the state mostly eastward to follow the course of the Mississippi. It's a less lonely trail than many they travel, the road well-used and a constant traffic of steamboats and barges out on the river. Nights spent on the ground are further between, hardly a day passing without them having come upon some trading post or fishing town with a friendly saloon and beds to rent. It's the furthest thing in the world from their tense, hurried journey through Kansas. Hell, it's practically pleasant. As they wind their way toward the Gulf it grows warm enough to steal the bite from the air, yet cool enough still at this time of year that the humidity isn't stifling and the mosquitos are blessedly dormant.

As they head further south though, tension starts to seep back into him again. It's not a thing like the wary unease that had followed them from one end of Kansas to the other; he isn't looking over his shoulder or watching his tongue. That would be easier to deal with. No, here the unease comes solely from within. Louisiana is so close he can all but taste it, old guilt and new all tangled up with an empty ache like probing the gap left by a missing tooth. It rarely hurts if he has the sense not to poke at it. But lord, nothing pokes at it quite like coming further down the brown Mississippi and starting to hear familiar accents again, starting to catch the first scents of home on the breeze.

Some weeks' travel further south, there's a scrap of nothing little town tucked into the bend of a river that's barely worth the name beside the mighty Mississippi, close enough to the warm waters of the Gulf to smell the salt in the air over the brackish murk of the bayous. He can see it in his mind's eye as clear as if he were standing there; the sun on brown river, tied up fishing boats bobbing gently in the water, the shabby little stores and houses clustered in around the wharf. He doesn't know that he'd recognise it now. Some fifteen years have passed since he last laid eyes on the place. Certainly he wouldn't lay odds on it recognising him.

It had changed some even by the time he left. But the image of it burned into his mind would always be that first sight of it as they rounded the last bend in the road and saw it through the pale trunks of the bald cypress trees, all of eight years old and exhausted by the long walk to get there with all their meager possessions carried on their backs. His mama had twisted a cheap ring — bought herself a few towns back — anxiously on her finger and patiently explained to him one last time that they were going to tell people his daddy died in an accident. He might well have done for all Goodnight knew. He never met the man. 

It was only when he grew older that he really understood just why that little white lie, told in a new place where no-one knew different, made things so much easier for them. It a lie he still finds on his own lips now and then, offhanded and thoughtless when he doesn't go to the effort of reminding himself that it doesn't matter any more.

He can feel Billy's eyes on him sometimes, in the silence that draws out in idle moments when normally Goodnight would be running his mouth about nothing in paticular. After all this time on the road together they're too damn well accustomed to each others' habits. It's very easy to tell when something isn't quite right. And by the same token he knows that Billy isn't going to ask, that he's in no danger of being pressed with questions he has no desire to give answers to. Still, it's a little odd to be so easily read. A great deal of time and effort has gone into maintaining his mask. He's unused to anyone being able to take a glance and know that something beneath it is awry.

"We're not far from where I grew up," he finally says one night, half a bottle down in a less than salubrious saloon in St Joseph, the whiskey loosening his tongue. There's a contemplative pause, in which Billy prudently tops off both of their glasses.

"...do you want to go there?" he asks eventually, lifting his glass and regarding Goodnight thoughtfully over the rim of it.

Goodnight huffs something that that isn't really a laugh and takes a quick gulp of his own drink. "No, no. It's been a long time. I doubt there would be anything left there I'd know to see." Aside from a gravestone he's not sure he has the strength to look at a second time. "It's just...a little discomfiting to be back."

"I wouldn't know," Billy says with a small shrug.

Another long moment of quiet draws out. A precedent of not asking prying questions has been well and truly established between them, and it's one Goodnight has no intention of parting ways from now. "I suppose home would be a long journey for you," he comments instead, non-committal.

"Too long," is Billy's only response.

From there they elect to leave the subject, passing the rest of the night instead by cheating each other outrageously at faro and working their way down to the bottom of the bottle. There's an odd relief in having admitted aloud what has him so on edge, some weight lifted from his shoulders, and Billy too seems satisfied enough with the explanation for why he's been behaving so oddly for the last few days. It still amazes him, when he takes the time to think about it, that this gets to be so _easy_. It's so small a thing, what they have in each other; someone willing to listen or to accept silence, and be patient and without judgement in either.

The next day they leave the river and veer west again just north of Natchez, joining the last stretch of road on their long and winding road back toward Texas. 

They hadn't originally intended to do much in the way of work on their road to wherever they end up next. But then just outside of Huntsville a wanted man by the name of Eddie Tanner has the kindness to fall right into their laps while drunk off his ass in a disreputable saloon, and with the hard part out of the way they'd be fools not to make the week's detour to escort their new friend into the loving arms of the Federal Marshals in San Antonio, who are willing to pay very handsomely for the pleasure of his company. He's doesn't make for the best travelling companion, but he responds well to threats, and the promise of the payday waiting for them when they drop him off is well worth putting up with his charming company for a little while.

He has an odd fondness for San Antonio and its eclectic patchwork of styles and cultures, overdone greek revival buildings butting up against adobes and the occasional gothic spires of churches punctuating the roofline. If nothing else, it's refreshing to be back in a genuine _city_ after long months trailing through scrap of nothing little frontier towns with optimistic pretensions toward the title. There's a comfortable cloak of anonymity that only comes with a settlement large enough that the people don't know all their neighbours' faces, that two more travellers passing through don't warrant a second glance. Although on this particular occasion, the third man tied to the saddle of a spare horse purchased for that very purpose does attract a stare or two.

They deliver Tanner to the marshals' office with minimal fuss, and settle in for the rather more drawn out process of waiting for the paperwork to be processed and confirmed, and their money to be handed over to them. It's a tedious process, but he supposes he can't fault them for wanting to be sure that they have the right man and everything is in order before they hand the money over to any yahoo who wanders in with some roped-up lowlife in tow. There are certainly worse places to pass some time. 

They stable their horses and take a room at a boarding house in La Villita, and then, with the best will in the world, take full advantage of the opportunity to get out of each others' hair for a while. Other than small frictions they've found each other's company mostly agreeable, but absence they do say makes the heart grow fonder. By necessity they live in each others' pockets when they're out wandering the frontier lands. Now and then a little privacy doesn't go amiss.

The weather is hot but not oppressively so, and after the dust of the road, the walk by the riverside is downright pleasant. Moreover, after so long travelling hard and stopping only briefly in tiny towns, it feels almost decadent to do something as simple as indulge in having the use of a proper bathhouse, to be able to linger over a good meal that hasn't come in a tin and been halfheartedly prepared over a campfire. Perhaps, if tomorrow he's feeling particularly extravagant, he might even have his clothes laundered.

It's perhaps a little pitiful how low his standards have slipped. But either way, it's certainly good to be back in civilisation.

It won't last, of course. Sooner or later the weight of people and noise will become too much, the restrictions of a settlement long past frontier lawlessness will begin to chafe. It's the change of pace that makes these stopovers pleasant; for better or for worse, the trail is where he's made what passes for his home, and he knows full well that he couldn't stand city life for long. Any inclination he might once have had toward a sedentary lifestyle is well and truly gone. He can't picture himself picking a place and staying there, whether it were a tiny town like the one he grew up in or a bustling city like San Antonio. Perhaps one day something might change his mind, but for now, he just can't imagine the constant itch to be moving on ever fading.

He stops by Alamo Plaza around sunset, removing his hat and taking a moment to pay his respects to the place where his grandaddy died. Not for too long, of course. He barely remembers the man, but by all accounts he'd been an ornery old cuss who'd made his only daughter's life hell for daring to fall pregnant out of wedlock. But blood is blood, and the ugly parts of a history cancel out the good no more than the good does the reverse. After a moment he resettles his hat on his head and strolls off into the gathering night to find a friendly saloon.

He finds a card game and has a few drinks, and generally passes a rather enjoyable evening. It's well dark by the time he makes his way back to the boarding house, mildly drunk in a pleasant way but not so much so as to particularly compromise him. The door to their room is unlocked, lamplight filtering through the gap under it. Billy glances up as he walks in. He's barefoot and in shirtsleeves, sitting cross-legged on one of the beds with a slightly worn looking book open in his hands. The name _Twain_ is stamped in peeling letters on the spine.

"You read English?" Goodnight asks as he hangs up his hat, mildly surprised. 

His tone must have implied some disrespect he didn't intend, because there's a distinct trace of irritation in the glance Billy shoots him. "Five," he says.

"I'm sorry?"

"I speak five languages. I won't apologise for yours not being the best of them."

"Nous-autres, on est pas après parler mon langue," Goodnight replies, wilfully contrary. Billy puts the book down and gives him the most profoundly unimpressed look he has ever received from another human being. "...ah, I take your point though. I apologise. I only meant...well, plenty who grow up speaking the language and never learn another don't." 

Billy watches him for another long moment before giving a small shrug, apparently finding that response adequate, and turning his eyes back to his book. "There were missionaries," he says, "When I was a child. Their Bible was in English, so they taught us to read English." It's the first real piece of information he's ever volunteered about his past, and Goodnight finds himself utterly at a loss for how to respond to it. Fortunately he's spared the necessity of doing so by Billy raising his gaze again and asking, "What was that other language you used?"

"French," Goodnight replies, more at ease responding to something with a simple answer. "Not that most from _la Patria_ would deign to recognise it as such. Cajun French." 

Billy considers this information for a moment. "It sounded almost like Spanish."

"The two have a lot in common, I think. Certainly they're closer than either is to English." The thought is half distracted, his attention more focused on turning the rare scrap of information imparted to him over in his mind as he finishes shedding his outer layers. "...was it very different from here, where you're from?"

The glance Billy shoots him is almost startled. Understandably so: they very rarely ask questions about anything not directly pertinent. "In some ways, I suppose," he replies after a moment. "It was..." He looks out of the window, contemplating the lights of the city beyond. "...older. Everything here feels very new. Not built to last. You go to a frontier town that wasn't there five years ago, and it feels like it might not be there in five years time."

Goodnight gives a wry smile. "We are a very young country, aren't we? I've heard immigrants from Europe talk the same way."

Billy gives him a trace of a grin. "The city I was born in has stood there for more than a thousand years."

"Well now you're just showing off," Goodnight replies lightly. Even a few drinks down, he can recognise when he's been gently deflected, and he takes the hint in good grace. Rather than pry further he settles back onto the bed, folding his hands behind his head and toeing his boots off to land with a dull thump. Somewhere nearby, two of their neighbours are in the midst of a loud and protracted argument. From outside, music from a nearby saloon is drifting in through the half-open window, some drunk in the street cheerfully warbling along. Ah. Civilisation. Or what passes for it here, anyway.

With a yawn he rolls over and wraps himself up in the blankets; Billy obligingly turns the wick of the lamp down a fraction, leaving himself light enough to read by. Cradled in the bustle of the city punctuated by the occasional turning of a page, slowly he drifts off to sleep.


	5. I will survive and so will you

Their road out of San Antonio takes them further west again, along the military road to El Paso with the vague intention of from there going on to try their luck in New Mexico territory. It's a path out from relative civilisation and back toward the wilderness to which they are more accustomed. The route is busy enough that they see fellow travellers on the road often enough, laden wagons trundling along and the occasional messenger horse blowing past. Even if it's far from solitude, they passed long enough in San Antonio for it to be a relief by comparison, the wide open skies and dust of the trail refreshing after the sheer weight of humanity in the city. 

They make good time at first, hitting Seco Creek to refill their canteens and water the horses early on the second day. From there the road grows harder though, the air growing drier as they move further inland, and hotter as the days go by and spring continues its steady rise toward summer. They plan their stops carefully around creeks and rivers, keeping spare canteens well filled and wrapped in sodden cloth to keep the water relatively cool. The heat saps the appetite and the energy both, leaving them quiet and disinclined to do much beside sip from their canteens as they ride along at an unpressed walk, the steady thud of the horses' hooves stirring up dust. The relative cool of night feels like a blessing every time the sun slips behind the horizon. 

It takes them an even three weeks to reach Fort Davis, and they take a day there to rest up and resupply. Billy continues idly working his way through the books he'd picked up in San Antonio; Goodnight finds a friendly card game and comes away slightly richer than he'd arrived and in possession of, among other things, a necklace he rather thinks that poor officer's lady is going to be displeased with him for gambling away. They eat as good a meal as one can get at a fort and drink for a little longer into the night than is probably advisable. 

The break is a welcome one. Water is scarcer out here, west of the Pecos, and the roads more dangerous. But they're on the home stretch now. Another week's travel will put them in El Paso, and once they hit the part of the road that follows the Rio Grande, water will cease to be an issue. Nor are they overly concerned by the more human dangers. Bandits are an ever present threat on the trail of course, a trap always poised to snap shut on an unwary traveller. But for the most part they look to prey on wagons and coaches, targets which can't or won't fight back, or which promise rich enough pickings to be worth a fight. Ninety-nine times in a hundred, two well-armed men on good horses, visibly carrying naught much else beside their bedrolls, have little to fear on most roads. 

There's always the matter of that hundredth time though, and when wandering as widely as they tend to, it comes up more quickly than one might think. Whether the band that ambush them in the rough hilly country past Eagle Springs are desperate or merely foolhardy will remain a question for the ages — it seems an inopportune time to pause and inquire when stray bullets are kicking up dust around them — but in either case they certainly aren't equipped to press the advantage their superior numbers should give them.

The mess of shouts and gunshots and shrieking horses rings in his ears and strikes past rational thought into a visceral place of blind instinct; the rifle is at his shoulder before he has any conscious memory of drawing it, steering his half-panicked horse with his knees as he looses off shot after shot. For an endless red-tinted moment he could be anywhere, memory and nightmares and the waking world blurring into a vicious, mindless trance of aim, breathe, fire.

And then the rifle clicks emptily under his hands and he snaps out of it with a start, and before dread can rush back in there's someone shouting his name and snatching at his reins. The horse needs no further urging to bolt, abruptly bereft of the guidance of its suddenly dazed rider.

The trail thunders by under them. He blinks desperately and shakes his head, one hand clinging to the saddle horn and the other still white-knuckled around the rifle stock. There are still shouts ringing out behind them; glancing over his shoulder he can see dust and wheeling horses, the chaos of a nascent attempt to mount some kind of pursuit. It's enough to ground him slightly, drive home the reality of their when and where. He shoves the spent rifle back into its holster and grips the reins, glances sideways and— feels icy panic grip his heart all over again.

Billy's jaw is set and and his face drawn, a spreading dark patch on his thigh slowly starting to leave red stains on his saddle blanket. A shouted question over the thunder of hooves draws a sharp shake of the head in return. "Later," Billy calls back. His meaning is clear. They have a hard ride ahead of them, and dealing with bulletholes is something that will have to wait until they're no longer in immediate danger of acquiring more.

It's a long, gruelling day. The sun has crested above them and started to slip down towards the horizon by the time they're finally satisfied that they've shaken any pursuit, the horses trudging along at the grudging walk which is the most they can be stirred to any more. Billy is chalk pale and swaying in his saddle, clinging grimly to consciousness; Goodnight has to help him down from his horse when they finally find somewhere to stop, the reek of blood heavy in the air as he takes Billy's weight. He forces his hands to be steadier than they feel, taking what comfort he can in Billy's heartbeat and his admittedly weakened grip, the warmth of the undeniably still living body leaned in against his.

He tosses a bedroll down just for something other than cold hard ground to lay Billy down on, quick and careless, more concerned with the injured man leaned in against him than how the blankets fall. Billy is barely conscious by then, the last dregs of whatever reserves of stubbornness had powered him thus far apparently having been spent by the effort of getting off his horse, and the sudden realisation washes over Goodnight like ice water that he's wholly responsible for whatever happens next.

There's always been an inch or so between them in height, but it's never occurred to him to think of Billy as being particularly smaller than him, not when the whipcord strength in the lean lines of his body is clearly visible in the lethal grace with which he moves. He's never looked so _small_ as he suddenly does laid out on the bedroll, pale and still with blood staining his clothes. The sudden palpable waning of what's left of Billy's strength is more terrifying than anything else. He's seen it too many times before, strong men willing themselves on through hell and back to make it to camp horribly injured, only to let go when they think themselves safe and slip away into the night. He can't bear to see it happen again. Not here.

Goodnight's hands are shaking as desperately as they ever have after any nightmare as he cuts the blood-soaked fabric away with one of Billy's knives, as he presses them against the wound. Blood spills between his fingers and trickles down his wrists to stain the cuffs of his shirt, thick and hot and coppery and god he hates the feel of it. Billy's eyes are hazy and unfocused, his breath coming far too shallow. From somewhere Goodnight finds the reserves of determination to grit his teeth and force his trembling hands to do the job he needs of them.

He sacrifices half the contents of his hip flask to cleaning out the wound, and most of the rest to keeping the sick, clawing panic roiling in the pit of his stomach at bay. It's a small mercy at least that the bullet had punched clean through; he doesn't know that he could have held himself together through the ugly, bloody process of digging out the slug. Strips torn from a worn old shirt will do for makeshift bandages, packed in tight against the wound to stem the bleeding. The knot is a bulky, clumsy thing, but it's the best he can manage with fingers that barely want to follow his command. It will have to suffice.

Rising unsteadily to his feet, he staggers a few steps away and empties the contents of his stomach behind a bush. It's mostly whiskey and it burns worse coming back up than it had going down. He sags to his knees as he retches weakly, his head spinning and grey specks swirling in front of his vision, panic an iron band around his lungs as he struggles to draw breath. The fight or flight rush that had seen him this far is fading, leaving him weak and sick and empty in its wake.

He glances over at Billy, swallows the sour taste at the back of his throat, and once again forces himself to stand and continue to function.

In some strange trance he goes through the motions of setting up camp, of starting a fire and hitching the horses and laying out the rest of the blankets. He briefly considers their store of trail food, but the mere thought has his freshly emptied stomach on the verge of rebelling again. He reaches for a canteen instead, swilling and spitting before taking a cautious gulp. It tastes sweet on his tongue after the coppery reek of blood and the hot sourness of vomit, and he drinks as deeply as he dares before setting it aside again.

The sun is slipping down in the sky to kiss the horizon, painting the clouds fiery shades of dusk, by the time he finally runs out of petty tasks to keep his hands and mind occupied. He throws a few more branches on the fire and eases down onto the blankets beside Billy. He can feel the magnitude of what just happened — what might be about to happen — looming over him like some dark tidal wave ready to crash over him if he dares let himself contemplate it.

It's an absurdly small wound really, the single low-calibre bullet leaving behind a hole not even the size of a penny. With the flow of blood halted the immediate danger is past. But he's seen men fall to lesser wounds, the feverish heat of infection burning through them as blood and pus oozed through dirtied bandages in some grotesque carnival of a field hospital. Shells and slugs did the damage, but it was infection that was the killer, sneaking up slow and merciless on many a man who thought himself safe again behind friendly lines. 

He tries to light a cigarette, but the breeze is picking up again and his hands are still trembling too badly to shield it well enough to let it catch. In the end he gives up before he wastes any more matches and tucks the cigarette back into its pack.

There's no point in trying to sleep. He doesn't have to pause for thought to know how that's going to end, not when he can already feel the icy fingers of the nightmares trailing over the back of his neck like a lover's caress even here in the waking world. Even if he thought he could sleep soundly, he wouldn't. He can't shake the fear that if he tries he'll wake beside a cold corpse. Instead he keeps a silent vigil, staring unseeing into the campfire and trying to ignore the way his heart seizes in terror for every uneven hitch of Billy's breath. He can't lose Billy. He _can't_. He knows in his bones that it would break him in a way that even the war never managed, shattering the hollow shell of the man he once was and leaving the pitiful creature within naked and exposed.

Perched on a tree branch outside of the ring of firelight, and owl hoots mournfully at him. He throws a rock at it.

It might just be the longest night of his life. But after endless hours, somewhere in the still darkness before dawn, Billy stirs. It's a weak motion, barely more than a shifting of blankets, but it's more sign of life than he's shown since sundown. Relief and hope shiver over Goodnight's skin like a breeze on a stifling summer day, all the more tantalising for their fragility. Pushing them aside, he leans in, his voice unsteady under the first words he's spoken all night as he says Billy's name. He gets a fluttering of eyelids in return, and a dry throated rasp of something that isn't quite a word. "What was that?"

"Mul," Billy repeats, a little more clearly. Not that clarity is of any particular help in this moment. When he receives no response beyond bewildered silence, he makes the further effort to raise his head slightly and crack an eyelid, squinting against the dim light of the fire. After an endless moment his gaze focuses on Goodnight. With a breath of a sigh he lets his head fall back against the bedroll, a furrow of concentration creasing his brow as his eyes fall shut again. "...water," he corrects himself after a long moment. He looks like death warmed over, pale even in the warm light of the campfire, wincing as he carefully shifts his weight to prop himself up on his elbows. But while it's too early yet to know for sure, that he's conscious and coherent at all is undeniably a good sign. 

"You look terrible," Goodnight informs him lightly, passing him the canteen. Billy huffs something that might have been a laugh in another lifetime, his fingers clumsy as he uncorks the canteen and takes a long drink. When he's finished he sets the canteen aside and sags back against the bedroll. Blood is starting to spot the makeshift bandage wrapped around his thigh, knotted awkwardly over his ruined pants. He winces as Goodnight adjusts and tightens the bandage with now slightly steadier hands, but doesn't make a sound.

They'll need to find somewhere a touch more permanent than a hastily-chosen roadside campsite soon. Much as he's loathe to put Billy through the ordeal of hauling himself up onto a horse and riding the trail in his current state, they have precious little choice. They can't stay here. There's no source of water nearby for them or the horses, and nothing that would suffice for shelter should the weather turn on them. They need to find somewhere they can care for the wound properly and ride out the fever that has to be coming.

To the east, the coming dawn is starting to stain the sky pastel shades of pink and gold, supplanting the light of the dying fire. In the grey shadows of fading night, they strike camp and prepare to move on.


	6. I try to be here just like you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, apparently the use of "okay"/"OK" was popularised in the USA by Van Buren's 1840 re-election campaign.
> 
> I am not a native Spanish speaker, and what I do know is a mishmash of Castilian and Argentinian Spanish, rather than Mexican Spanish. Please feel free to correct anything in this chapter that's particularly egregiously wrong (although if it's on Goody's part, do bear in mind that _he_ doesn't speak Spanish particularly well either). Translations:
> 
> "¿Que pasó?" - What happened?  
> "Bandidos en el camino."- Bandits on the road  
> "Para calmar la fiebre." - To calm the fever  
> "Tres días. Entiendes? Él debe descansar por tres días." - Three days. Understand? He must rest for three days.  
> "Si, entiendo. Gracias." - Yes, I understand. Thank you.  
> "Un regalo" - A gift

There's precious little on the road for the next few days' travel ahead of them beside the dispirited huddle of tents that is the first camp on the Rio Grande, and the crumbling outpost of Fort Quitman. There are more substantial waypoints further along the road of course, but while the thought remains unvoiced between them, they're both well aware that in his current state it's tempting fate for Billy to attempt to ride that far. So for the time being they leave the road behind and veer off into the hills around the river valley, following the trail at a slow, careful pace. Civilisation remains distant, but the river winding its way along the border makes for a good place to settle; they won't find it difficult to come upon somewhere they can seek out help.

A few miles downriver they come upon a tiny fishing village sprawled out by the blue waters, all sturdy adobes and children playing in the street, fishermen waist-deep in the water out casting their nets. The inhabitants, mostly Mexican, are are wary at first of strangers; mothers reeling their children in as they regard the approaching visitors with caution. Neither of them are at their best — Billy weak and feverish, Goodnight cotton-headed with exhaustion — but between them they manage enough Spanish to engage in pleasantries and make it clear that they mean no harm. Goodnight rather suspects that their obviously weakened state does more to convince the locals that they aren't a threat than any words possibly could have. Under the circumstances, he'll take it.

He has to consciously remind himself which language he's supposed to be speaking more than once, but after some trial and error they find someone willing to accept money in exchange for a hot meal and a roof to sleep under. As accommodations go, a disused shed — which had to judge by the smell formerly housed goats — is not the finest place they've ever slept. But nor is it the worst. Piled straw makes for a comfortable enough bed with their blankets laid over the top, and Señora Garcia, the elderly woman to whom the shed belongs, is generous in filling the bowls of stew she gives them in exchange for their coin. She must be eighty if she's a day, but her hands are steady and her eyes alert, sharp and clever in a way that makes Goodnight feel uncomfortably as though she's looking right through him. She clicks her tongue disapprovingly for the sight of the amateurish and by now somewhat bloodstained bandage wrapped around Billy's thigh, and leaves them with stern instructions to enjoy their meal. 

When she returns it's with a bulging bag in her hands and a determined expression on her face. She is a healer, she explains, gently shooing Goodnight out of the way. He's too pitifully relieved at the prospect of competent medical attention to raise any objections, and gladly does as he's told, making room for Señora Garcia to kneel down beside Billy. Her touch is efficient but not unkind as she carefully unpicks the bandage, Billy grimacing silently as tacky half-dried blood comes away with the fabric when she peels it back. The wound is angry and still weeping under the bandage. Riding hard on that first day did it no favours, and nor did the inexpert initial care; it'll heal ugly.

"¿Que pasó?" Señora Garcia asks.

"Bandidos," Goodnight replies. "En el camino." She shakes her head in response, lips pursed disapprovingly.

Another, slightly younger woman brings out a gently steaming kettle of hot water as Señora Garcia sets her bag down and lays out her supplies. The first step is cleaning the wound with soap and water, a process Billy suffers through with gritted teeth and stifled noises of pain caught up on ragged breaths. The washbasin is soon murky with blood, coiling sluggishly in the still steaming water. When the wound is cleaned to Señora Garcia's satisfaction, she applies a thick paste that smells strongly of lemon directly to the wound. It looks innocuous enough, but apparently it stings fiercely enough to have Billy crying out for the first time. She hushes him softly, her expression apologetic. "Para calmar la fiebre," she says, giving his knee a maternal pat. 

From there it's a simple matter of wrapping the wound again in fresh, clean bandages. By the time she finishes Billy is half dozing, clearly drained, and rather than rouse him she turns to address Goodnight. "Tres días," she tells him sternly. "Entiendes? Él debe descansar por tres días."

"Si, entiendo," he replies, profoundly grateful. "Gracias." She gives him a faintly approving nod and leaves.

As ordered, they spend the next three days in the shelter of Señora Garcia's goat shed. Over the course of those three days, Billy's fever peaks, leaving him soaked in sweat and dozing restlessly as it burns through him. Goodnight is glad to aid their gracious hostess with whichever household tasks she may require to compensate her for her hospitality, but every spare moment he has is spent sitting vigil by Billy's side; bringing him water when he's awake enough to drink, giving what comfort he can with soft touches and meaningless murmurs when he's shuddering and half crying out in the grip of some fever dream. He thinks it helps. Even if it doesn't, he couldn't bring himself to be anywhere else, no matter how painfully his heart clenches in his chest every time the rhythm of Billy's breathing falters.

When he sleeps himself he dreams of smoke and blood and the reek of death, shadowy wings drifting above the ruin of the battlefield. He dreams of Shiloh and Sharpsburg and the shootout on the road until he can't tell them apart any more, until the sharp report of gunfire and the thunder of artillery follow him into the waking world. More than anything else, he dreams of gangrenous wounds in stinking field hospitals. He dreams of limbs amputated too late and grey-faced men already walking dead, and they all, every last one of them, wear the same face. Christ, he can't lose Billy. The prospect of having to find a way to go on without him doesn't bear contemplating.

For the time being, he does the only thing he can do, and copes. What he can do to help feels like precious little — the greater part now is in the hands of whichever capricious gods roll dice for the fate of wounded men — but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't at least try to do what he can. Beside everything Billy has done for him since they first met in what feels like another lifetime, nothing that could be asked of him would be too much.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Billy's fever breaks. By noon on the fourth day he's sitting up and asking for food, visibly thinner and still pale but with clear eyes. When Señora Garcia comes to check him over she seems pleased with what she sees, her manner businesslike as she unwraps the bandage to examine the wound underneath. The paste has stiffened under the bandage, the underside of it caked with dried blood and pus drawn out of the wound; there's a fresh sluggish pulse of blood as it comes away, but it's clear and bright without any of the sickly tinge of infection. She seems satisfied enough with its progress, and carefully cleans the wound and reapplies the lemon-smelling salve before bandaging it once more.

With the thought in mind that perhaps they shouldn't outstay their welcome, Goodnight politely brings up the idea of them moving on. This earns him a scolding the likes of which he hasn't experienced since his mother, god rest her, passed on. He doesn't speak Spanish anywhere near fluently enough to fully appreciate the florid and emphatic ways in which he is undoubtedly being called a goddamn idiot, but he certainly comes away having been thoroughly converted regarding the notion that they should rest up for a few more days to give Billy time to recover his strength.

It doesn't take quite so long as he might have expected. Billy's remarkable reserves of determination — to say nothing of sheer bloody-minded stubbornness — have not deserted him, and no sooner can he stand without going faint than he's taking careful, shaky steps across the shed with one hand braced against the wall. The wound continues to weep sluggishly, but coupled with regular cleaning, the salve seems to be doing a sterling job of warding off any further infection. He can only thank whichever kind deity was watching over them for the luck which guided them to this particular village.

When they do eventually start making preparations to move on, Señora Garcia leaves them with a small jar of the salve and more bandages, and a great deal of advice regarding the subsequent care of the wound as they saddle their horses and prepare to leave. No bathing, she tells Billy sternly, advising him to keep the bullethole clean and dry until it's healed. After some discussion she grudgingly concedes that riding is fine so long as they don't go any faster than a gentle walk. 

Goodnight thanks her effusively and, as far as he can tell, mostly coherently. Despite his best efforts she refuses to take payment for her help; in the end he presents her with the necklace he'd won from some unfortunate officer at Fort Davis an eternity ago. _Un regalo, un regalo_ , he insists, and with a soft sigh and a hint of a smile she accepts it. Riding high on the sheer relief of Billy's recovery, he is slightly more flamboyant than usual in turning on the southern charm, the wizened old woman laughing as she lifts her white hair to allow him to fasten the clasp of the necklace behind her neck. He kisses her hand and sincerely thanks her one last time, before stepping away to let Billy say his goodbyes.

Mindful of her advice, they keep the horses to a cautious walk as they ride out to rejoin the road. Billy's seat is somewhat ginger in his saddle at first, but before long he seems to find the way of riding without further aggravating the wound. He's still wearing the ruined pants he'd been shot in, stiff with dried blood and half cut open to lay the bandaged wound bare. There's little point in changing into a clean pair only to bloody them too, and struggle in and out of them when the bandages need changing. Still, for all the practicality of it is undeniable, Goodnight is intimately acquainted enough with the unique discomfort of fabric stiff with one's own dried blood chafing against the skin that he can't help but cringe slightly in sympathy.

Even leaving aside the time they lost in that nameless riverside village, their road to El Paso is still significantly slower than it would otherwise have been. They make their journey in short, easy stages from one watering place to another, keeping the horses to a walk and detouring to avoid difficult terrain. It's a frustrating process. But it's worth it for the visible improvement in the healing wound every time Goodnight helps Billy clean and rebandage it when they set up camp in the evening. He can't guess at what else is in Señora Garcia's salve — the smell of lemon overpowers everything but a trace of something pungently medicinal, and perhaps salt — but it seems to work miracles regardless. 

The fever doesn't rear its head again. By the time they reach El Paso some two weeks later than planned Billy is still struggling to mount and dismount his horse, but he can walk unaided — if slowly and shakily — and the bullethole no longer bleeds when the bandages are removed. It's as much as they could reasonably have hoped for, and now that they've reached something resembling civilisation, the rest should be relatively simple to take care of.

They take a room at the small hotel on the main street, and prepare to settle in for a good while so that Billy can finish healing. After the last few weeks it's nothing short of a blessing to shed clothes covered in trail dust and stiff with old sweat and blood, to have even a cursory wash in the basin, to finally change into something clean. He pays a maid more than is probably necessary to take their clothes to the laundry and have them thoroughly cleaned...save of course for Billy's pants, which between the blood and the tearing are probably unsalvageable. With commendable tact, the young lady does not pass comment as she arranges for extra hot water and soap to be sent to their room.

There's a relief beyond the physical in the sound of the lock clicking shut on the door. Intellectually, he knows that making it to El Paso is no more a guarantee than anything else that's happened since the shootout on the road. There is still endless potential for unforseen complications. But it's hard not to believe that all will be well when they've made it this far. When Billy is sitting up in bed, finally free of the bloodstained clothes he'd been shot in, looking alert and whole and _healthy_. He's still too thin — they haven't been riding hard, but riding at all takes a toll on the body, and trail rations are not the thing for gaining back weight lost in a fever — but other than that he's a world removed from looking as small and _vulnerable_ as he suddenly did that first night.

Billy, glancing up from the process of rolling a cigarette, notes his gaze and quirks an eyebrow at him. "What?"

Goodnight gives a small shrug. "You're looking slightly more at home in the land of the living."

He gets a snort in response, Billy shaking his head as he sets the cigarette between his lips and reaches for the pack of matches sitting on the nightstand. "I still feel like a newborn colt when I try to stand," he replies. He strikes a match and lights the cigarette, smoke curling out from between his fingers.

"I hear that a bullet to the leg can have that effect on a man," Goodnight replies lightly. Billy, amusement glimmering in his eyes, silently holds the cigarette out toward him.

Goodnight sits down beside him on the bed, their backs set against the wood of the wall, and in companionable silence they share the cigarette. The sweet, cloying smoke curls around them in the still air, turning the world hazy and distant. Cigarette held loosely in his hand, Goodnight closes his eyes, and for the first time in weeks lets himself relax.

"...thank you," Billy says quietly, apparently apropos of nothing, into the silence. 

Goodnight blinks his eyes open and gives him a confused look. "For what?"

"For...this." He makes a hand gesture vaguely encompassing the bandage around his thigh. "All of it."

Understanding dawning, Goodnight gives a soft, weary smile. "Think nothing of it." 

He takes another long draw, calm washing over him for the familiar taste of smoke and the almost meditative rhythm of inhale and exhale, before passing the cigarette back over to Billy. There will be other hardships ahead of them, of course. But in this quiet moment of peace and companionship, the outside world a distant concern, he can't help but believe that it's going to be okay.


	7. we are the only ones right now that are celebrating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at my sweet baby fic, all grown up and earning its E rating

They spend a few weeks in El Paso, unwilling to further test what good fortune they've had. Given time and rest the bullethole continues to heal, and after a few days — having finally finished the last of the books he'd bought in San Antonio while bedbound — Billy takes to pacing their small shared room. He takes it slowly at first, not demanding too much of the damaged muscle when any carelessness could easily bring about another setback. But after a week or so of practice he's reasonably steady on his feet again, jaw set and not the faintest sound of discomfort escaping his lips as he puts his healing body through its paces. 

Goodnight tends to find reason to busy himself elsewhere during these times, allowing Billy what peace and privacy he can. While he has the luxury of leaving their room and going to the saloon if he wants some time to himself, he has an inkling about why Billy prefers not to do so even if he probably could manage the stairs alone by now; in the time they've travelled together he's seen the kind of casual harassment Billy tends to receive from the petty-minded. It doesn't take any great leap of logic to imagine why Billy would perhaps prefer not to be out alone in the street when not only impaired but _visibly_ so. It's a vulnerable position for anyone to be in.

Fortunately they know each other well enough by now that it's reasonably easy to gauge when Billy wants peace and when he would prefer companionship, and much as staying stationary again so soon after San Antonio has them both restless, on the whole they manage to pass the time without getting on each others' nerves too badly.

Over the past few weeks, Goodnight has been nothing if dilligent in his role as nursemaid, and tonight is no exception. The last of the bandages and salve Señora Garcia had given them are in his hands as he sits down on the edge of the bed. He sets them down on the nightstand to unwrap the bandage; Billy watches his hands move with a relaxed air, making no move to interfere or rush him. Of course they're both fully aware that with the weakness and fever long past, Billy is more than capable of caring for the wound himself. But there's comfort of a sort in this routine they've settled into. For him at least there is anyway, and by the lack of any objection from his independent and eminently capable partner, he rather thinks he isn't alone in that. 

Billy is sitting up in bed, nude under the blanket half thrown across his lap in a cursory nod toward modesty. Of course there's simple logic behind it. There's little point in struggling in and out of day clothes when the wound still needs to be accessible for cleaning and changing bandages, and neither of them leads a life civilised enough to justify owning a nightshirt. But the practicality of the matter doesn't help Goodnight a great deal when he's left trying valiantly to maintain a sense of decorum despite the unavoidable nudity. It's hardly the first time of course — they've been travelling together and living in close quarters for far too long to have much in the way of shame left — but there's an intimacy to this that he feels painfully ill-equipped to deal with. Especially _now_ , when after everything that's happened it's been brought home to him with brutal clarity just how desperately he doesn't want to lose Billy.

There's nothing he can do though except cope as best he can. Whatever his own personal unease with the situation, it remains less important than giving what support he can to help Billy recover. 

Freed from the bandages and washed clean of the salve, the wound is livid still, too pink and new and tender to even truly be called a scar yet. But there's no denying that it's healed beyond the need for bandages. Beyond any danger of infection. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, something tight and painful in Goodnight's chest eases a fraction; the desperate, sick fear of losing something that's become truly vital to him finally loosening its grip enough to let him breathe again. And perhaps it's that relief has his fingertips slipping from their careful examination into something distractedly gentle, threaded through with the tenderness he's exhausted from trying so desperately hard to suppress as they trace over bare skin.

Billy's fingers close around his wrist, and ice drops into the pit of his stomach.

"Goody." There's none of the anger or disgust he'd been fearing in the soft way Billy's voice wraps around the nickname, half fond and half exasperated in a way that's achingly familiar, but he still can't find the nerve to look up and meet the other man's gaze. He can't bear the thought of what he might see there. He lowers his head and closes his eyes, as though in childish conviction that by turning his face away he might shield himself from this.

" _Goody_." It's the brush of cool fingertips along the line of his jaw that startle his eyes open again, the soft intimacy of the touch striking him soundly in some deep and vulnerable part of him. Gentle but insistent, Billy nudges his chin up, seeking out his gaze. And— god, he doesn't know how to read what he sees there when he finally meets Billy's eyes. He's half afraid to try, to give in to believing that he really sees what he so desperately wants to. He can't risk believing in that hope and having it taken away again.

But there's no mistaking the _warmth_ , the relaxed line of Billy's shoulders and the aching tenderness in his touch as one hand tightens reassuringly around Goodnight's wrist and the other slides back up to cup his cheek. There's something like a sob caught in his throat as he turns his face into that touch, closing his eyes he as savours it and for one breathless moment, lets himself hope.

"It's okay," Billy murmurs low and soft into the air between them as he leans in to press their foreheads together. "It's okay."

"Billy—"

"It's okay." The soft mantra has faded to barely a breath as he tilts his head and leans in and— in a rare moment of uncertainty, hesitates. Goodnight can't help but lean in too, his eyes lidded but still open, hypnotised like a jackrabbit before a coiled snake. There's barely a hair's breadth of space between their lips, and god, he aches with everything in him to close that last sliver of distance.

"Whatever you want," Goodnight whispers, hushed and reverent, his heart pounding in his chest. "As much or as little, whatever you want, it's yours." The words feel like gospel on his lips, like a prayer, a biblical truth torn from somewhere deep inside his chest.

Billy kisses him.

His lips are dry, slightly chapped from the desert air, and softer even than Goodnight would have imagined if he'd dared let himself. There's a lingering gentleness to the kiss that steals the breath from his lungs, the aching want for more overruled by a desperate need to memorise every detail of this moment in case it might yet slip through his fingers; the slow stroke of Billy's thumb over the inside of his wrist, the warmth of Billy's hand cupped around his cheek, the soft rush of their breath mingling. He wants so much, and yet, more than anything else he wants for this moment never to end.

But when it does, it's with a warm grin like a shared secret between their lips, and Billy's hand slipping down from Goodnight's cheek to smooth over the soft-worn fabric of his shirt. "I think," Billy says, a rough edge to his voice that shoots straight down the length of Goodnight's spine, "You might have too many clothes on." 

A flush burns across his skin at the request clearly implied in that statement. Billy's touch is slow and soft, undemanding, but there's an undeniable intent in the way his fingers are drifting toward the buttons of Goodnight's shirt. He's powerless to do anything but acquiesce, the moment conferring some strange significance on the mundane act of unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off of his shoulders. With Billy looking like some muse of a renaissance sculptor in the soft lamplight, he can't help but be struck by a moment of self consciousness, intensely aware that the comparison between them does him no favours.

Apparently, however, he's alone in that sentiment; certainly Billy appears nothing but satisfied with what's in front of him, his hands slowly mapping out the shape of Goodnight's body as he leans in for another kiss. He can't help but shudder himself at the feel of skin on skin, no layer of cloth between them. It's been so long since he last had the simple luxury of a tender touch, of being able to relax under the hands of someone he cares for and trusts. Even a quick fumble to relieve tension hasn't appealed these past years like it would have done once, not when the thought of letting some stranger so close makes his skin crawl. The slow, gentle slide of Billy's hands over his skin is like nothing he's had in as long as he can remember.

He wouldn't presume to make assumptions about how much applicable experience Billy may or may not have, but there's a curious, exploratory edge to the touch of his hands that rather makes Goodnight think it isn't a lot. That thought is at the forefront of his mind as he traces gentle fingers over the lean lines of Billy's body, even his eagerness for the warm skin under his hands unimportant beside the want to make this something good. He presses in closer and curls a hand around to cradle the base of Billy's skull, fascinated by the fall of his hair, by the softness of it as it slips between his fingers. Billy shivers and tilts his head into the touch like a cat.

They kiss until they're both flushed and breathless, the initial softness slowly suffused with something more heated as their hands roam over bare skin, until his fingers, trailing down Billy's stomach, hit the edge of the blanket. Billy stills, his breath catching in his throat; his eyes are dark when Goodnight pulls back enough to meet them, glittering in the lamplight, a delicious flush burning across his cheekbones and his lips sinfully reddened from the kiss. Goodnight hesitates, the soft promise he'd made lingering at the forefront of his mind. He'd give anything to taste every inch of Billy, to slowly take him apart and learn what sounds he makes when he's mindless with pleasure, what he looks like when he finally lets himself be tipped over the edge. He wants it so badly he aches with it. But nothing is more important than proving himself worthy of the trust he's been offered here. He'll take only what he's freely given and no more.

But before he can withdraw further, Billy is pressing another lingering kiss against his lips and curling a hand gently around his, guiding him to push the blanket aside. Goodnight feels a little like he's forgotten how to breathe as he draws back the heavy fabric, anticipation and lust and a desperate want to make this all that it could be tangling together into something that catches sharply at the back of his throat, mouth dry and pulse racing as his eyes sweep unimpeded over the lithe, scar-scattered length of Billy's body. Lord above he's beautiful. He's hard already, swelling further with a shiver that runs through his entire body at finally being completely bared, and Goodnight leans in to kiss him again before any of the extremely foolish words he can feel on his tongue can spill out.

His hands slide slowly up Billy's flanks as he bows his head to lay a reverent kiss against the hollow of his throat, moaning softly for the taste of skin and sweat as he slowly maps out a path steadily down Billy's chest and stomach with an eager mouth. The hitched breaths and quiet noises of approval he draws out with every graze of teeth and hot press of tongue are intoxicating, _addictive_ , heat prickling over his skin as he slowly shifts down the bed until his hands are braced against the mattress on either side of Billy's hips. The fingers carding through his hair and tracing over his neck and shoulders are gentle, an affection in the touch that strikes him soundly somewhere deep and tender. 

He sucks a bruise into the soft skin just inside the curve Billy's hipbone, and is rewarded with a ragged noise that has blind want shooting through him like lightning. Half drunk on the rush of anticipation, he raises his eyes to drink in the sight Billy makes above him, all bare skin and hungry eyes. No words could do him justice like this. Poets would be dumbstruck, at a loss for any praise effusive enough to fully capture how unearthly he looks in the lamplight, some transcendent creature choosing to gift himself to the touch of mortal hands. 

Rather than embarrass himself by trying, Goodnight settles instead for something rather more prosaic. "I want to suck you," he murmurs, lips brushing warm skin as he speaks. 

He can feel the shudder that runs through Billy for the words, hips twitching involuntarily. "Yes," he breathes, low and heartfelt, fingers tightening in Goodnight's hair. It's all the encouragement he needs to wrap his lips around Billy's cock, a groan rising in his throat for the taste and the satisfying weight of it on his tongue, for the utterly sinful moan he's rewarded with as he lowers his head and does his utmost to prove that talking their way into and out of trouble is the least of what his mouth is good for. 

The heat writhing under his skin for it is like a living thing, fighting the bit of his self control, shamelessly eager for the tug of Billy's hands in his hair and the shallow, involuntary rocking of his hips. It's been a long time since he last had the opportunity to put this particular skill to use — not since a lifetime ago, once upon a time when a younger and more cavalier version of himself had no particular reason to be wary of letting others in close — but in the heat of the moment muscle memory is quick to remind him. He breathes slow and steady through his nose, head bobbing and teeth tucked carefully out of the way as he swallows against the faint flutters of discomfort at the back of his throat. If he had a thought to spare for such trivialities he'd suspect he made a vaguely undignified picture, but it's difficult to care when there's nothing in his head but lust.

Billy moans out a breathless curse, arching up and _shaking_ , utterly stunning in the grip of passion. It's a supreme act of willpower to look away, but with some difficulty Goodnight finds the strength to close his eyes, the better to devote his full attention to the task at hand. More than he can imagine wanting anything else on this earth, he wants to feel the moment Billy's self control finally slips, to taste the spill of him and hear him cry out in pleasure for it. He wants it so fervently that there's room for nothing else, even the aching throb of his own need irrelevant beside it. 

His hands slide over Billy's hips, encouraging him to thrust up into his mouth, to chase the peak of his pleasure. Billy is nothing if not obliging in following that urging, the punch of heat that hits Goodnight for the feel of his urgency intense enough to leave him dizzy in its wake. If he could he'd be spilling filth and praise from his lips like water, breathed like a plea and a prayer against Billy's skin, rapturous as any divine ecstasy the saints ever suffered; enforcedly silent beyond muffled moans, instead he swallows down as hungrily as he can and worships Billy with all the wordless devotion he has.

A desperate gasp of his name is all the warning he gets. Billy's hips jerk sharply and with a helpless noise he spills across Goodnight's tongue, taut and trembling and _beautiful_ as his orgasm rolls through him. Goodnight gives a heartfelt groan as he swallows greedily, the answering wave of want that shudders through him almost painful in its intensity.

He pulls off with an obscenely wet noise, pressing a kiss against Billy's stomach before sliding back up to nuzzle affectionately at the line of his throat. To his mild surprise, Billy unhesitatingly pulls him into a deep, lingering kiss. Not that he doesn't think better of Billy than to expect anything of the sort from him, but he's had too many partners suddenly come over all standoffish once they'd had their pleasure not to feel a flicker of relief for it. He curls his fingers back into Billy's hair and returns the kiss slow and tender, heat shivering across his skin everywhere they touch.

And then, with a straightforward intent that he should in no way still be caught off guard by, Billy slips a hand between them to unabashedly palm his cock through his pants. He shudders convulsively with a thick groan lost into the kiss, cursing himself for not stripping completely earlier even as he's struck by the semi-hysterical thought that he's liable to embarrass himself like some fumbling adolescent if he doesn't get himself under control.

Wriggling out of his pants is possibly the single most desperately graceless act of his life, but he doesn't have it in him to care, not when the reward is the long awaited slide of bare skin with nothing between them and a hungry kiss that burns him right down to his bones. He curses fervently as Billy wraps a hand around him, stroking with a lazy, unhurried confidence that leaves him helpless to do anything but rock his hips greedily into the touch. He's strung tightly enough for it to have him spending himself with a broken whine of a sound in the space of a few strokes, melted helplessly in against the heat of Billy's body as pleasure breaks over him like a wave.

Afterwards, they lie panting together, limbs still entangled and sweat cooling on their skin in the sudden quiet of the room. The bed is narrow, not built for two, but it scarcely matters. Neither of them are particularly large men, and they have no intention of leaving a hair's breadth of space between them. If he had the capacity to give it any thought, he might be surprised by the comfortable warmth that the heat between them leaves in its wake as it fades, all lazily affectionate touches and breathless closeness. But then perhaps it shouldn't surprise him. They've trusted each other with everything they have; it's so small a thing, really, to trust each other with this too.

In the morning they'll have to face up to whatever consequences this may have. In the morning they'll have to find a way to gauge where they stand with each other in light of this new development. But for now there's nothing but languorous warmth and the comforting press of skin and the steady beat of Billy's heart under his splayed palm, all conspiring to make the cold light of day seem very far distant indeed. 

In the morning this may turn out to be a mistake. But tonight, even if only for tonight, he gets to fall asleep in Billy's arms.


	8. and we are joining hands right now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vieux Garçon is a card game similar to Old Maid/Scabby Queen. Appropriately enough, another colloquial meaning of the phrase is a slightly derogatory term for a "confirmed bachelor".

The cold grey light of earliest morning is filtering in through the gaps in the curtains when he wakes, casting faint, shifting shadows across the bare wood of the floor as the curtains flutter in the draft from the gaps in the windowframe. A hushed quiet is still wrapped in close around the sleeping town, too early yet for the day to have truly begun, and in that quiet he drifts for a time in the hazy peace a few steps below true wakefulness. The air is still nighttime-cool, but in the warm press of skin and blankets and the steady rise and fall of slow, sleepy breathing, the narrow bed seems a haven from the outside world.

Even in a half-dozing state, the memories of the night before are still at the forefront of his mind; how could they be otherwise when he's waking up thoroughly entangled with Billy, both of them naked as the day they were born. It makes something ache sweetly in his chest to have been given the chance to hold this however briefly, a fragile spark in cupped hands, beautiful for the moment it burns even if it never catches to tinder. He doesn't know what's going to follow when they both wake enough to think clearly about what's happened here. But if what comes next is still uncertain, all the more reason to savour this quiet moment of sleepy peace for however long it lasts.

Perhaps it's doing them both a disservice to be entertaining the thought that this might well still come to an abrupt and unfortunate end. Their partnership has come a long way from the tentative alliance of mutual convenience as which it began, grown into something solid and true built on shared trust; it would be disloyal in the extreme to blindly assume them incapable of weathering this for better or for worse. Knowing how badly this aching want of his could have ruined the trust between them, he'll be grateful just to keep Billy's friendship even if they never find themselves here again. But god help him he wants so much more than that. 

At some point he dozes off again, lulled by the warm comfort of the closeness of their bodies. If he dreams he doesn't remember it.

When he wakes again more fully it's to motes of dust dancing in the beams of bright golden sunlight slanting into the room, and Billy stirring against him. No sooner is he conscious enough to realise what's woken him than a wave of apprehension washes over him, a fleeting useless wish to hold onto the peaceful quiet just a moment longer. The sudden whisper of cooler air over his skin as Billy pulls away and the blankets shift seems to strike some deeper chill into him. But instead of the more full withdrawal he's half anticipating, from there nothing but stillness follows. After an endless moment he finally risks opening his eyes. Billy is watching him, expression unreadable, half propped up on one elbow with the blankets slipping down loose from his shoulder. There's a softness to him like this, his hair falling loose into his face and his eyes still half hazy with sleep, every line of his body relaxed. Certainly he seems in no hurry to distance himself.

"Good morning," Goodnight says lightly, affecting an ease he doesn't feel. Billy's answering smile is a small thing, but it's soft and genuine and it warms him right down to his bones. To his surprised delight, Billy settles back in more comfortably against him, fingers brushing over his shoulder with an absent affection. 

Even if it's far from confirmation of where they stand with each other now, it's nothing if not a promising sign, this unhesitating closeness and easy warmth. It's enough to have the uneasy tension coiled in his chest releasing its grip a fraction, his breath coming easier for it. Perhaps this will turn out to have been nothing more than a one-time happening. But in this moment, curled in close in the soft morning light, he can't help but feel a flicker of shame for thinking that their partnership might be lessened for it. Ultimately, it comes down to the same thing it always has: he trusts Billy.

On impulse, he leans in to brush a soft kiss over Billy's collarbone; something light and breathless flutters in his chest as Billy cups a hand around his jaw and gently tilts his head up to kiss him properly, slow and soft and lingering. He can't help the way his body stirs in response, and pressed in close together like this, there's no doubt that he's far from alone in that. It's an artless thing, all low moans lost into a kiss growing deeper and more heated as they rut against each other. There's a different kind of tenderness to it than what had gone the night before. They hold each other tightly, pressing in closer as though simply being skin to skin isn't enough, finding a rhythm together in the movement of their hips as they chase their pleasure. 

Afterwards, bonelessly sated and breathing hard, they share a cigarette in comfortable silence. It's strange how newly intimate the familiar act feels, smoke coiling in the space between their lips and their fingers brushing as they pass it back and forth. It's strange how in the wake of what's happened there can still be so much thoughtless ease between them.

The sun is high in the sky by the time they finally stir themselves to get out of bed. It might almost be a perfectly normal morning if not for the thoughtless touches they trade in passing as they wash and dress. Even in the heat of the moment they'd had the wit not to leave marks anywhere visible; it's disconcerting to see what few had been left behind disappearing under fabric, safely hidden away. Washed and dressed and put together, ready to face the world, no outside eyes could tell that anything has changed.

The stairs down to the hotel's ground level are narrow and steep. Billy takes them cautiously, hand braced against the banister for support on his injured left side, but without hesitation. Even injured and still visibly limping, there's a grace about him, an easy confidence in what he can ask of his healing body. If the wound is still causing him discomfort he doesn't let it show. Nonetheless, Goodnight finds himself automatically falling into step on Billy's left as they leave the hotel to make the short walk to the saloon down the street, ready to offer support he knows won't be asked for.

They're laughably late for anything resembling breakfast, but an early lunch is a reasonable proposition, claiming an out of the way table as their own and settling in with a couple of plates of whatever's going. And then naturally lunch turns into a few drinks, which turns into a lazy afternoon spent valiantly attempting to cheat each other at vieux garçon. There's a joke in there somewhere. A shot penalty is instituted for the loser, and by the time they wind their way back to their room some time after dinner in the red light of the setting sun, they're both pleasantly drunk.

The room is dim with the door locked behind them. Somewhere beyond these four walls are wooden floorboards creaking under footsteps, conversations passing by in the street outside; inside there's nothing but an expectant hush.

The morning was at least reassurance enough that the night before isn't to be some aberration they never speak of again. He couldn't say what that makes it instead, what this new dynamic of theirs will ultimately settle into, but as Billy steps in closer and removes his hat with gentle fingers before leaning in for a soft kiss...more than anything else he is grateful for the opportunity to find out. He slides his hands over Billy's hips, careful of his knife belt, and reels him in closer as they kiss slow and lingering as though they have all the time in the world.

He pulls back slightly when the kiss breaks, just enough to search Billy's face. Lord above he's beautiful. It would be so easy to get lost in him, to eagerly take whatever is on offer for as long as it is and not ask any questions. Heaven knows it's tempting. But the last thing he wants is to treat this carelessly, to presume what it is without taking the time to ask. The trust between them has weathered worse than an awkward conversation.

"Perhaps," he says quietly, pushing aside the urge to pass over the more uncomfortable parts in favour of rekindling the kiss, "We should discuss what we expect of this."

Billy tilts his head, considering. "What did you have in mind?"

It's a simple question, and a reasonable one which under the circumstances was probably forseeable, but it roots Goodnight to the spot. He can feel so many words caught up in his throat, some useful and most far from it, pent up from what feels like an eternity of keeping what he'd thought was a hopeless want buried. Even in the face of such easy acceptance and affection, the thought of baring what he wants is still terrifying. If he can even fit _words_ around what he wants. He wants everything and anything he's freely offered. He wants to hold on to this soft, breathless tenderness they've found between them in the last short day.

After a few long moments of half-panicked silence, Billy takes pity on him. "This is good, right?" he murmurs, his fingers curling gently, distractingly into Goodnight's hair. "...were you thinking more than this, or less?"

"More." The word is torn from him before he has any conscious memory of finding it on his lips. There's something exhilarating in hearing it said aloud, everything he's been trying so desperately not to say for so long bubbling up in his chest. "Chéri, I couldn't ever get enough of getting to wake up beside you like this morning." He's never felt so cut open and vulnerable as he does with these words spilling from his lips, but once he's started he finds he can't stop. "I meant what I said. As much or as little, whatever you want, it's yours. I don't know how much I have left in me, but it's yours."

Billy's eyes are wide and shocked, looking more vulnerable than he had even in the grip of the fever. The curse on his lips is a shaky, disbelieving thing as he leans in to take another achingly tender kiss. "I knew you wanted me," he says, still looking a little lost. "I didn't think—"

Shame coils unpleasantly in the pit of Goodnight's stomach for the thought that he might, however inadvertently, through his own cowardice have given Billy reason to think himself less valued and cared for than he is. "And so much more than that," he murmurs, cradling a hand around the line of Billy's jaw and brushing a kiss over the corner of his mouth. "I don't expect anything of you that you're not happy to give. But please don't ever fear that what you want to give will be anything but welcome."

Billy swears again and kisses him with intent enough to burn through the last of his resolve; he's helpless to do anything but melt into it, a new kind of elation rising in him at the thought that this is really something he might be allowed to hold on to, that it isn't about to simply slip through his fingers. More than anything else he wants to be given the chance to prove to Billy that he means what he says with everything in him, that this is about respect and care and loyalty and affection so much more than mere want. Here and now he finds that he truly believes he'll have that chance. They might trip themselves up now and then, but they'll find their way again. They always do.

There's an air almost of ceremony in the way they help each other shed their clothes with tender, familiar hands, savouring it as a first of sorts when last night they'd already been mostly in a state of undress before they started. Falling night is deepening around them as they settle onto the bed together, drawing out soft gasps and moans as they move together. There's a thrill to this shared exploration, learning how and where to touch to be rewarded with shivers and delicious noises of want and need. With every touch and kiss he's grateful anew that they have been given the chance to share this.

"We'll have to be careful," Billy says to the air afterwards, his eyes turned toward the ceiling. Goodnight sighs and brushes a kiss over the pulse at the hollow of his throat. Much as he would dearly love to deny the reality of it, it's true. Most of their time is spent on the trail or in spit of nothing frontier settlements amid vaqueros and miners and assorted other lowlifes who couldn't care less how anyone else chooses to keep warm at night. But neither law nor conventional morality is on their side. Certainly they'll have to watch themselves more closely when they're in anything resembling civilisation. Those of a religious inclination in particular tend to lack a certain pragmatism about these things.

Personally he has little patience for any sanctimonious proclamations on the evils of sodomy. He's committed far crueler sins than giving pleasure to someone he cares for; certainly he'll have far worse to answer for when his reckoning comes.

"I suppose I shall have to restrain myself to displays of affection only when we're safely in private," he replies lightly, illustrating his point by doing exactly that with another tender kiss to the side of Billy's neck. "Of course my old pastor would probably advocate a more extreme form of self-restraint," he adds with a wry twist of a smirk and a small shrug. "But it may well be too late for that. If I'm to burn in the fires of Hell, at least I shall be in good company."

"Fear restrains nothing but the hand," Billy says, with the distant air of one quoting something learned by rote long years hence, "He who does not refrain from evil except through fear of punishment, commits that evil in his heart, and is already guilty before God."

It's enough to genuinely startle Goodnight, who recognises the words on a visceral level, burned into his memory by childhood catechism. "You're not Catholic," he says, raising his head in surprise. Billy seems to start slightly himself, looking almost put out, though whether that's at the presumption or simply at letting himself be read so easily is another question entirely. 

"My family were," he replies after a moment. It's an answer which invites a thousand other questions, but the curtness of his tone does not invite further discussion. Recognising a sore subject when he sees it, Goodnight elects not to press the matter.

Instead he wraps his arms around Billy, pulling him in closer with soft kisses scattered over any skin he can reach; a wordless apology for inadvertently steering them into uncomfortable territory. "Perhaps we should give some thought to when we're to be moving on," he says. It's hardly the smoothest change of subject, but he doubts he'll receive any objection for it.

"I'm fit to ride." Billy gives a small shrug. "It's too well healed to tear open again."

Goodnight slides a hand down Billy's flank and over his hip to trace a thumb around the still livid bullet wound. "Does it pain you still?" he asks softly.

There's a soft kind of bemusement in the look Billy gives him. "I'm fine."

"Lord above, you'd say that on your deathbed." Goodnight rolls his eyes fondly and nudges his forehead against Billy's. "I'll be displeased with you if you put yourself through more pain without good cause."

Billy leans in to kiss him again, tender and lingering. "It hurts," he admits. "Riding will be...uncomfortable." He pauses again, giving Goodnight a long, considering look. After a moment a smile starts to spread across his face, apparently apropos of nothing. Seeing a genuine, unguarded smile on his lips is enough to steal all the breath from Goodnight's lungs, and he can't do anything but melt helplessly into the hand Billy cups gently around his cheek. "Maybe a few more days bed-bound appeals more today than it did yesterday."

Goodnight laughs. "I do what I can, chéri," he replies, warmth like sunlight on his skin as he drinks in that smile. "I'm sure I can make it worth your while."

Billy's smile widens. "I'm counting on it."

The world may well become a more hostile place for them because of this. But it's difficult to care when they have each other, all shared warmth and affection and the unhesitating support and acceptance he's come to so thoroughly rely on. It's difficult not to believe that so long as they have each other, nothing else can truly touch them. Outside, they'll have to be careful. But here, in the haven of these four walls and each others' arms, they're safe.


	9. I want the last dance just like you

In the end they spend another week in El Paso before they start to make any significant preparations to move on. They pass their days in the saloon; occasionally supplementing their dwindling funds through low-stakes poker games with fellow patrons, but more often keeping to themselves. There's little sense in tempting fate for a few extra dollars when they already have one partially healed bullethole to contend with. It's a rather more sedate pace of life than they're used to, and particularly so soon after their stopover in San Antonio, the inactivity chafes. But it's worth it for the visible difference an extra week of rest to heal makes in the livid new scar on Billy's thigh. By the end of the week, he's walking with more confidence, the limp scarcely noticeable to anyone who isn't looking for it.

Certainly it's worth it for the luxury of a bed and a solidly locked door at night as they continue to feel out the shape of their new arrangement, exploring each others' bodies with gentle, curious hands. Every time they touch he's warmed anew by the comfortable ease between them, by the proof of the _trust_ they share to have made it even this far. Every time he wakes in the soft light of early morning to sleepy, thoughtless affection, he's struck again by the thought that surely this must be too good to be true. It's hard to believe that he can really have been given this. Billy's too good for him and he damn well knows it. He can't imagine what it is that Billy sees when he looks at him; it must be something a damn sight different from what he sees in the mirror himself, to think him worth giving so much to. 

But then maybe he's overthinking the matter. Maybe it's nothing but the simple truth that they have little else besides each other. The life of a wandering vagabond, hustling vaqueros in quick-draw contests and taking in the occasional bounty, does not tend to attract much in the way of better prospects. His heart still aches for the memory of the look of blindsided vulnerability on Billy's face as he'd processed the revelation that he was more than just wanted, that this could be more than simply a physical convenience. To be truly cared for is an unusual experience for both of them.

Since that discussion they've settled into a comfortable routine, keeping their interactions within the bounds of platonic affection through the day and saving the more tender touches until they're behind closed doors at night. He hadn't realised just how often by unthinking habit they casually leaned into one another until abruptly he found himself hyperaware of how every touch might look to outside eyes. It's a comfort of sorts though, to think that if those touches were unremarkable before, they should be no less so now. There's no reason to needlessly deprive themselves of the level of public familiarity to which they've become accustomed for fear of betraying that they share a greater familiarity in private.

It's not something they've explicitly discussed, but certainly Billy shows no hesitation in leaning into him when they're at the saloon, their heads close together as they pour over the eclectic collection of maps spread out over the table. When travelling as widely and without solid plans as they tend to, one accumulates maps at a truly startling rate. Most are tattered and travel-stained to varying degrees, much-annotated in hands their own and belonging to previous owners. At the moment their plan consists nebulously of heading northward into New Mexico, but it remains light on specifics.

Normally it's not their way to plan their route in any great detail beyond a rough idea of where their next resupply stop will be and how long, in a worst case scenario, it will take them to get there. But under the circumstances it seems only prudent to be a little more fastidious in their planning. Fortunately their journey northward through the arid territory of New Mexico will be eased by having the upper reaches of the Rio Grande as both a waypoint and source of water. It's difficult to become lost when following the course of a large river.

With their route decided, they need only supply themselves for the journey ahead before moving on. Santa Fe is at a conservative estimate two weeks' ride away. There will be settlements in between at which they can replenish their supplies of course, but even so, two weeks' worth of food for two men — even two men well used to short rations out on the trail — is no small amount. Purchasing their rations at the general store puts a rather significant dent in the pool of money from which they purchase their shared necessities. They'll need to start looking to pick up more lucrative work again soon.

While the storekeeper puts together their provisions, Goodnight idly browses the shelves for anything else that might be useful or of interest. The rows of miscellaneous tools and farm implements he passes over with the polite incomprehension of one who has never learned their use and is more than content with that state of affairs. He eyes the jars of spices wistfully for a moment, fantasising of something slightly more exciting than salt pork and beans for dinner every night for the next two weeks, before sighing and mentally consigning it to a future date when they are slightly better placed to spend money unnecessarily. Coffee and tobacco on the other hand he's able to justify to himself as more necessary, adding them to the pile to be purchased out of their shared funds. Extra ammo falls into a similar category.

Half hidden away in a back corner is a shelf of books. Most are crudely printed dime novels, but a few more substantial volumes catch his eye. There are several copies of the local almanac, one of which he lifts from the shelf and leafs through briefly; he has no particular intention of purchasing it, but it's always worth checking for the expected weather at the time of year and any other snippets of information which may be of use to the passing traveller. In this case, nothing stands out. He replaces the book on the shelf in favour of more closely investigating a thinner volume, yellowed and well-worn and quite clearly previously owned. _The Raven and Other Poems_ is printed in faded letters on the cover. He considers it for a long moment, debating with himself, before tucking it under his arm.

On an impulse he also picks up a blank journal. Both are purchased out of his own pocket.

The two volumes sit in his saddlebags as they load up the horses and prepare to ride out. Billy, for his part, doesn't seem to have indulged in buying anything beyond new pants to replace the pair ruined by blood and bullets on the road. Neither of them habitually carry much beside necessities. Frivolous possessions are an indulgence of those who lack occasion to carry everything they own. That being the case, it takes them a very short time indeed to be ready to head out. Billy is still slightly clumsy in mounting his horse, cautious of his injured leg, but not so much so that anyone unfamiliar with his usual easy grace would even notice.

They leave El Paso with little fanfare, the locals mostly ignoring two more travellers on the road. Their route out of town takes them north along the river into Mesilla Valley. Keeping to an undemanding pace — more out of caution than strict necessity at this stage — the two week journey to Santa Fe will be an easy one. The valley itself is a pleasant place, a broad swathe of green amidst the dry scrubland, spread out around the meandering river which nourishes it. Low at this time of year, the river wanders sluggishly around exposed sand bars, seemingly a world removed from the mighty torrent it becomes some hundreds of miles downstream. They pass sturdy homesteads as they take the road with the horses at an unhurried walk, the occasional farmhand pausing in his work to watch them go by with idle curiosity. 

The first night they set up camp by the roadside is a surreal one; he nearly lays his bedroll out on the opposite side of the fire by sheer force of habit before remembering their changed circumstances. They'd found a routine of sorts in heading back up to their room at night and locking the door behind them in El Paso. After the sheer normality of cooking dinner over the campfire, to combine their blankets and settle in beside each other under the stars is a startlingly tangible reminder that this is more than something fleeting. Still clothed and intensely aware of the possibility of other travellers stumbling across their campsite, their closeness that night is mostly chaste. But there's a satisfaction all its own simply in falling asleep to the warmth of Billy's body curled in close against his.

The pattern continues as they work their way northward along the course of the river. After the first few nights pass without incident, they grow slightly less wary of the possibility of unexpected company, indulging in slow kisses and what pleasure they can give without removing too much clothing when they're wrapped around each other in their nest of blankets at night. Their days meanwhile pass much as they always have, out in the dust of the trail with nothing but their horses under them and endless sky above. Out here there's no need to bury affection under a camouflaging layer of camaraderie when there are no human eyes to see for miles around. If he could, he'd take those first few long golden afternoons and press them like flowers between the pages of a book; the meandering conversations about everything and nothing punctuated with companionable silence, the sound of Billy's laugh and the way his voice flows more freely when there's no-one else there to hear. He'd give anything to have those moments preserved after they fade, to take them out again and linger over when things aren't so easy.

In the quiet moments at night when they're drifting together on the edge of sleep, loose and sated still in the breathless lull after their shared pleasure, he can't help but look forward to the next time they have a real bed and a door that locks, the time and space and reassurance of privacy to savour each other more fully again. He can't help but idly fantasise about a more intimate and visceral coupling than any they've dared so far. The thought alone is enough to have a flush burning across his cheeks, a trace of nervousness tempered by undeniable desire. It's a moot point while they're on the road of course. But the road remaining ahead of them to Santa Fe grows steadily shorter as they ride upriver, and the closer they draw, the more he finds the thought on his mind.

When they finally ride into Santa Fe, without any spoken consultation it's suddenly their immediate overwhelming priority to find a hotel room. No sooner is the door of it locked shut behind them than they're kissing hungrily up against it, all unabashed greed as their hands tug clothing out of the way to get at skin. It's intoxicating, heat crackling between them and igniting like lightning in dry grass. Goodnight groans a desperate curse as Billy unbuttons his pants with deft, practised fingers, nipping at the side of his neck as he slips a hand inside to tease at him. "What do you want?" he asks softly, his mouth hot against Goodnight's throat, hand working torturously slow around his cock. "Tell me what you want."

At those words the mass of half-formed fantasies he's been turning over in his mind for weeks coalesces in a hot rush into a single, visceral desire. He draws a breath and makes the decision before he can second guess himself, murmuring low and ragged, "I want you to take me."

He feels Billy go still against him, the teasing stroke of his hand suddenly ceasing as he pulls back enough to meet Goodnight's eyes. "Are you sure?" he asks, a trace of surprise in his tone. He looks younger with his hair loose around his face like this and the inscrutable air he carries with him in public discarded, caught in a rare moment of uncertainty. 

He can't fault Billy for being taken aback. He can hardly believe himself that this is really a step he's about to take. For all that he's cultivated a pragmatic approach to taking his pleasure where he can find it, he never would have thought he would find himself here, unreservedly offering himself to someone else. And yet for all that he can't help a trace of nervousness, he doesn't doubt his decision. This, whatever they have together, is a world removed from anything he's ever experienced before. He trusts Billy with everything in him.

"I'm sure," he replies, winding his arms in around Billy's shoulders to hold him closer as he kisses him. "I trust you."

There's a different edge to the heat between them as they undress each other with tender hands, a breadcrumb trail of discarded clothing charting their path to the nearest bed; it's slower, less frantic and greedy, and yet somehow only all the more intense for it. He's trembling with lust, with the thought of what's to come, helpless noises caught up on his lips for every touch and kiss he's given. He's never felt so _vulnerable_ as he does laid out on the bed, naked and wanting with his pulse fluttering in the hollow of his throat, but despite the nervousness tangled dizzyingly with his desire, there's not a trace of apprehension. He doesn't believe for a second that Billy would hurt him, not through carelessness and certainly not through malice.

A half bottle of Rowland's from his saddlebags is pressed into a use which the manufacturer certainly never intended, and lord, he's never going to be able to use it on his hair again without the scent of it taking him back to this moment; a feverish flush burning across his skin, head tipped back and legs parted as Billy slowly, carefully eases an oil-slicked finger into him. It's a peculiar sensation, odd but not unpleasant. There's a sweet ache to it that seems to throb in time with the beating of his heart, sending waves of desire washing over him anew. He moans and shudders for it, not just for the physical sensation but for the _thought_ of what's happening. He never would have imagined he could be so feverishly hungry to be spread open like this, willingly laid out for someone else to take.

The noises falling unheeded from his lips are ragged things, only turning more breathless and desperate for the feel of a second finger working its way into him, the throb of that intoxicating dull ache shaking through him like the pounding beat of a drum. He tangles a hand into Billy's hair and pulls him down into an urgent kiss, helpless noises of pleasure lost between their mouths, hips twitching involuntarily into the slick press of fingers as his body is slowly coaxed to open up around them. "Please," he breathes out into the kiss. Billy shudders against him and gives an unsteady nod, stealing one last soft kiss before easing his fingers carefully free and reaching for the oil again. 

He makes a stunning sight sat back on his heels on the bed, all lithe muscle, dark-eyed and flushed and achingly beautiful as he slicks up his cock with a rough, hitching breath of a groan. For his part Billy seems just as transfixed by the sight laid out before him, unblinking as he leans in and lines himself up. Goodnight curses desperately as he feels the blunt head of Billy's cock nudging up against him. He lets his thighs fall apart wider, feeling utterly _debauched_ for the wave of feverish lust that crashes over him as Billy slowly, slowly starts to sink into him.

It hurts more than he was expecting, that dull ache sharpening as his body struggles to adjust to the intrusion, and he can't help the way he tenses up. Closing his eyes with a shuddering exhale, he tries to relax, concentrating on the slow, comforting stroke of Billy's thumb over the curve of his hipbone and the ragged sounds of their breathing. It's overwhelming, like taking a hard blow straight to the stomach; all the breath driven from his body, leaving him weak and shaky. It hurts, but god help him it's _good_.

Somewhere beyond the blood rushing in his ears Billy is murmuring his name, low and insistent. With no small amount of effort he forces his eyes open again, and god above, the sight Billy makes leaned in above him like this with sweat sheening his skin in the warm lamplight would be enough to steal the breath from anyone's lungs. He's flushed and trembling, eyes blown dark with want, but the care in his touch is unmistakable. "I'll stop," he says softly, nudging his forehead gently against Goodnight's temple. "Tell me to stop and I will."

"No." The word is already on his lips before rational thought can get anywhere near it. It's overwhelming, it's damn near too much, but the last thing in the world he wants is for it to stop. He curls a hand into Billy's hair and draws him into a kiss, long and lingering. "Just...slowly," he murmurs against Billy's lips. "Go slowly."

Billy kisses him again, deep and soft and more tender than he knows how to bear, and his breath hitches hard in his throat like a sob for something so far beyond pleasure or pain he's half afraid to put a name to it. He's no innocent, but christ, he's never been _savoured_ like this, like he's something worth taking time over. And as he slowly relaxes under the warmth of Billy's touch, the ache eases and fades into something pleasurable, like the satisfying burn of weary muscles after a long, hard day. He feels feverish, flushed and shaky with something hot and urgent coiling greedily in the pit of his stomach. It's still overwhelming — god, it feels a little like it might kill him — but all he wants is more.

He rolls his hips, slow and exploratory, and is rewarded with a fresh pulse of pleasure and a ragged moan from Billy; he repeats the motion, encouraging, and gasps out a desperate noise of his own as Billy takes the hint and presses deeper into him. It's nothing but good and he grinds shamelessly into those first few shallow, careful thrusts, sparks of pleasure lighting up under his skin until he feels drunk with it. Billy kisses him again, deep and hungry, and he meets it eagerly. Every movement has heat shivering over him like a living thing. He should feel so vulnerable spread out under Billy like this, at the mercy of every slightest shift of his hips, but he doesn't. Not when Billy is holding him so close, nothing but care and affection in his touch and the press of his lips. It feels absurd and alien even to entertain the thought that he might be anything other than safe and well taken care of here. 

There are soft, breathless words caught up on his lips, all encouragement and affection and praise; he can hear them as though from outside himself, moaned to the air with wanton abandon as he goes pliant under Billy's hands. The flush painted across Billy's skin burns in deeper as he shivers for the sound of them. His grip tightens on Goodnight's hips, a growing urgency in his movements, and it's nothing if not persuasive encouragement to continue speaking. He whispers rapturous filth against Billy's skin, revelling in every shudder and hitched breath he's rewarded with as Billy buries his face in the crook of his neck and begins to fuck him in earnest.

He tips his head back and closes his eyes, still murmuring increasingly incoherent words of affection and lust as he cradles Billy in close against him and loses himself to the slick slide of skin and the fire in him burning hotter for every hard thrust. He's achingly hard, half out of his mind with want, the thrumming anticipation of his impending orgasm tightening its grip around him until he can barely breathe for it.

And then there's a sting of teeth at his shoulder and Billy goes suddenly still against him with a sharp cry of pleasure, taut and trembling, and the punch of heat which slams into him as he realises what's just happened is enough to tip him over the edge. The noise on his lips as he shudders through his orgasm is a broken thing, soft and desperate.

The only sound in the room is the ragged pant of their breathing as they slowly melt into the bed together, still entangled as though they mean never to let go again. Goodnight finds himself stroking tenderly through Billy's hair, something soft and warm curling in his chest for the unthinking affection he gets in return, artless kisses nuzzled in against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat and gentle touches brushed over his flanks. There's a comfort to having Billy's weight draped over him like this, pressing him into the mattress. It's the furthest thing in the world from a restriction. He feels...anchored. Safe.

After an endless few moments Billy stirs, shifting his weight and pulling away just enough to carefully ease out of him. It's a distinctly uncomfortable sensation, and Goodnight can't help but wince; there's a distinct note of apology to the soft kiss Billy presses against his lips as they settle back in against each other. In response he cups his hands gently around Billy's face and kisses him long and lingering, putting all the tender reassurance he can into it. "You were wonderful, mon cher," he murmurs warmly, low and soft like a shared secret between their lips. Billy huffs a disbelieving breath of a laugh and kisses him again.

He's going to be sore come morning. But that's no bad thing when it'll make every step he takes a pleasant reminder of tonight, of the intimacy and trust they shared. More even than the pleasure that's what he'll remember of this. He'll remember putting himself wholly in Billy's hands and feeling nothing but safe and cared for there.

With a last affectionate brush of fingertips across his skin, Billy rolls off of him and rises to his feet; Goodnight watches him go, too comfortable and sleepily contented to do anything but observe as he pads barefoot across the floor to the washstand and retrieves a damp washcloth, affection curling warmly in his chest. He feels loose and light and boneless, half melted into the mattress and more than happy to stay there. He watches with lidded eyes as Billy settles back onto the bed again, shivering for the coolness of the damp cloth against his still fever-hot skin. Perhaps there's something pitiful in it, but he can't recall the last time he was handled with this much care, as though it matters that the mess of sweat and seed and oil is cleaned from his skin and soft kisses brushed over every bruise and bitemark left behind.

Eventually he curls his fingers around Billy's wrist and gently tugs the cloth out of his hand, tossing it aside to drop onto the floor. "Come here," he murmurs, reaching up to wind the fingers of his other hand through Billy's hair; Billy very obligingly leans down to kiss him again, lazy and lingering as they melt back in against each other. He can feel those foolish words better left unspoken bubbling up on his lips again. He distracts himself by tugging the blankets up over them both, closing his eyes as he settles in more comfortable against the warmth of Billy's body. Billy's fingertips are stroking with thoughtless affection down the length of his spine, lulling him to a place of sleepy peace.

In that moment he knows with crystalline certainty that whatever they may have to do to keep this will be worth it.


	10. kisses on the dancefloor in my past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You want to hear something funny? Back when I started writing this last October, I thought it was going to be a quick one-shot. 
> 
> I had no real plan when I set off on this journey, and that's what tripped me up once I'd hit the point of getting these idiots together, because...well, now what? I hadn't thought it through that far. And then once I'd lost momentum, just the thought of coming back to it and trying to get started again was overwhelming.
> 
> I went back and forth for a while on whether or not to post this chapter. Part of me wanted to get the rest of the fic mostly if not completely written before I started posting again, but...well, much as I might like to pretend to be doing it purely for the art, comments keep a writer going. So: I'm back. I have a plan this time. I have 10k more words after this chapter already written, and a solid outline for the rest. I expect the finished fic to be somewhere on the order of 70k when I'm done.
> 
> I'm hoping to post one chapter a week, but we'll see how that goes. Either way, I _am_ finishing this, and I hope you'll all rejoin me for the rest of the journey.

After the first night in Santa Fe, by necessity they turn their attention to finding work. 

Most of the time money isn't a particularly serious concern for them. They make a decent enough living through the bets they lay, and the occasional more lucrative bounty taken when the circumstances favour them provides them with a respectable buffer to fall back on. Nor do they have any great expenses beyond food and the cost of renting a room for a few days whenever they pass through a town, both of them pragmatic in the small luxuries they occasionally allow themselves. But recent events have severely drained their reserves, and afforded them precious little opportunity for replenishment. They'll have to live frugally for a while and take whatever work they can get if they're to be prepared for whatever befalls them next.

The bounty notices posted outside the sheriff's office merit a glance, but for all that taking bounties may be sometimes profitable, they haven't the time or local knowledge for it to be presently useful to them as a plan. It would be foolish to commit to tracking someone down in less than familiar country even if they could afford to wait out the time it would take for the funds to be released. Should the opportunity to bring someone in fall into their laps, they certainly won't be shy about exploiting it, but as things stand it's more in the line of a backup plan.

Which leaves their old standby of drumming up some competition on which to place bets, an ever-reliable source of income for a man who knows how to play to a crowd. It's a touch harder to stir up a quick-draw contest in an actual town than some makeshift mining camp, but the profits have a way of being slightly more inspiring. As with everything, it's a matter of weighing the risks against the rewards. The added nuisance of having to take care not to draw the ire of a more formal local law enforcement is usually worth it for the reassurance that so too do any sore losers. A contest in a town of any size is less likely to result in business for the undertaker.

Even knowing that, he can't help a touch of doubt for it, conscious of the fact that Billy is still healing. But he knows better than to second-guess his partner. If Billy says that he's healed enough for it, Goodnight will do him the courtesy of taking him at his word. A well-played quick draw contest will see them in a rather more comfortable position with their funds.

But fate, it would seem, has other plans for them. On this particular occasion the emissary of provenance is a young man seeking to hire gunhands on behalf of his wagon train to protect them on the road. The promised payment is modest but respectable, further sweetened by the promise of a hot meal every night on the trail; rather more appetising fare than the simple campfire cuisine they're used to, by the sound of things. Goodnight questions their route — north-west along the old spanish trail, and then striking north toward Salt Lake City — and leaves with a promise to consult with his colleague and return to them with an answer.

Billy is dubious.

"It's a well-travelled trail," he says, tapping ashes from the end of his cigarette. "Why do they need gunhands?"

"I suspect they're more concerned with the hundred and some miles between the trail proper and Salt Lake City." Goody shrugs. "As far as I can tell their group is mostly women and young children. I can't fault them for being a touch more cautious than might be necessary."

Billy gives this information some consideration. "Can they pay?" he asks eventually.

"Ever the pragmatist," Goody says, half teasing, his gaze warm and fond. "Yes, and quite respectably so."

There's a drawn out moment of contemplative silence. Billy slowly exhales a cloud of smoke, exuding an air almost of meditative calm as he watches the smoke coil and billow in the still air; after a while he takes another drag on the cigarette before holding it out for Goody to take. Their fingers brush as he passes it over.

"That's going to be a lot of miles with eyes always on us, Goody," Billy says.

Goody sighs. "Needs must."

Necessity notwithstanding, Billy is far from wrong. With just the two of them, they could make the journey in three days if they pushed the horses, but for the wagons it will optimistically be a matter of more than two weeks. Two weeks in the constant company of a group of respectable citizens day and night, in which they aren't likely to have much in the way of respite to drop the facade of purely platonic camaraderie. This facet of their partnership is new enough still for the prospect of that two weeks to feel like an eternity.

That thought in mind, there's an urgency to the way they make the most of their last night in Santa Fe, hands and mouths fervent on each others' skin as though trying to commit every detail to memory to sustain them on the road ahead. He's still feeling the night before, tender and oversensitive and still so utterly greedy for it, the noises on his lips desperate, needy things as Billy slowly sinks back into him. If anything it's even more intense than the first time, want and need shaking through him right down to his bones as they savour every moment. 

They lie awake together for a long time afterwards, drifting in sleepy peace curled close into each other’s arms. More even than the pleasure they share, this is what he'll miss on the trail northward. He'll miss this soft, unthinking affection and the long-dormant warmth that curls in his chest for it. He'll miss falling asleep with the steady beat of Billy's heart under his palm and the warm comfort of a lover's arms around him.

They're preparing to leave the next morning, the pale light of dawn filtering in through the threadbare curtains of their room, when Goody's fingers brush paper at the bottom of his saddlebags. Abruptly he remembers the impulsive purchases he'd made in El Paso, largely forgotten while they'd been out on the trail. He pulls out the slim volume of Poe and considers it for a long moment before turning and wordlessly holding it out to Billy. Pausing in the process of packing away his own few possessions, Billy gives him a curious, slightly bemused look as he reaches out to take it. His expression is unreadable as he turns it over in his hands, silently leafing through the pages.

"Since I won't be able to keep you entertained in our preferred fashion on the road," Goody says, and for all that his tone is light and teasing, there's a trace of nervousness fluttering somewhere in his stomach. All of a sudden it seems more bold a gesture than it had back in the general store in El Paso.

He doesn't know what to call the look in Billy's eyes when he eventually looks up again. There's a trace of vulnerability in there, of something almost like confusion. But he recognises something in the way Billy holds the slim volume in close against his chest, in the soft, deliberate tenderness of the kiss he leans in to press against Goody's lips. He wonders how rare a thing a gift has been in Billy's life.

The wagon train they're joining is mostly young, distressingly earnest folk; settlers, looking to make a new life for themselves. For the most part they seem in good spirits despite the appalling earliness of the hour, talking softly among themselves as they load the wagons with provisions and herd children around. There are few nervous looks cast their way as he and Billy lead their horses up, but there are smiles too, and polite if reserved greetings.

In the light of day, surrounded by the industrious bustle of a wagon train preparing to depart, it isn’t especially difficult to maintain a respectable distance. Billy idly paces the length of the wagon train, assessing what they’ll have to work with, while Goodnight confers with the gentleman who appears to be leading the settlers regarding their route, planned stops, and the disposition of the train. 

Some of the settlers appear to be at least confident in carrying a firearm, though their competence in _using_ one may well turn out to be a different matter entirely. He suspects that few if any of them will ever have fired a shot in anger. Still, a gunhand is a gunhand, and it’s somewhat reassuring to know that they won’t be wholly alone in defending the wagon train should they encounter trouble.

It’s only when they’re underway, the wagon horses plodding doggedly along, that it really occurs to Goodnight just how long it’s been since he last travelled by any means other than a well-conditioned, barely-laden horse. Intellectually he’d known that keeping pace with the wagon train would slow them to a crawl, but even compared to the more cautious speed at which they’d travelled when Billy was still weak from the gunshot, the pace is excruciatingly slow.

He occupies himself by measuring the length of the train, dropping back to watch the rear for a time before trotting back up the flanks. It’s purely to stave off boredom, of course, but if it gives the appearance that he’s earning his keep so much the better. Meanwhile Billy is riding a short ways out in front of them, scouting out the trail and periodically dropping back to advise the lead wagon of conditions ahead. For now, there’s little to report, but his role will become a great deal more crucial when they leave the main trail to throw themselves upon the mercy of the lesser-travelled back roads.

If there’s one mercy in all this — beyond the promise of payment enough to keep the wolves from their door at the far end of the trail — it’s the lively air of the wagon train which keeps the dullness of the slow journey from becoming unbearable. There’s a great deal of chatter among the settlers, calls ringing out from one wagon to another; children hopping down from the buckboards to pelt along the dirt of the trail, grubby and laughing, and clamber up onto another. Almost despite himself, Goodnight can’t help but be buoyed a little by their good spirits.

They elect not to stop for their midday meal, but food is distributed along the wagon train as the sun crests in the sky. There’s dried meat and a little cheese, and so soon after stopping off to resupply, even a little fruit and bread fresh enough to still be soft. It’s certainly better fare than the basic campfire cuisine they arrange when left to their own devices.

The weather stays fair, and they make good progress along the road, pulling to one side to make camp for the night as sunset stains the sky smouldering orange to the west. They’ve covered some twelve miles. Goodnight knows full well that it’s a good distance for a wagon train to travel in a day, but he can’t help feeling thrown by it regardless, instinct insisting that they should easily have made thirty. His horse is restless too, shifting impatiently under him; she’s used to riding long and hard, and he rather suspects that the slow pace chafes her even more than it does him. 

The wagon horses, by contrast, are clearly tired by the time they circle the wagons and turn to the business of setting up camp. Tents are pitched and campfires lit, and by the time the sun slips fully below the horizon, their little camp is bathed in warm firelight and the air rich with the tantalising scent of a good meal. Goodnight ties up his horse and makes his way over to where Billy is sitting a little apart from the others, cigarette held loosely in one gloved hand as he gazes contemplatively into the fire. 

He looks quite lovely in the golden firelight, the shifting shadows softening his impassive countenance and lending a warm glint to his dark eyes. For an endless moment Goody feels almost as though he’s seeing Billy again for the first time, struck anew by the fineness of his features and the elegant way he curls his fingers. It occurs to him that he can’t recall the last time they spent so long parted, even if only by a matter of a mile or so. After the years they’ve travelled together, it feels viscerally wrong to have passed an entire day on the trail without exchanging a word.

The money they’ve been offered is good for light work, and Goody knows they made the right choice by taking it. Two weeks isn’t so long, after all. But it’s a hard test, to know they’ll have no privacy in which to share affection until they reach the other end. Now more than ever he treasures the time they spend alone on the trail together. He treasures the way Billy lowers his guard just a little when there’s no-one else there to see it.

He sits down close by, cautious to leave a respectable amount of fresh air between them, and gently knocks their boots together in greeting. Billy gives him just a trace of a sideways smile, eyes crinkling warmly at the corners, and returns the nudge.

“I’ll take first watch,” Billy says, businesslike.

“I’m sure it will be thrilling,” Goody replies with a huffed breath of a laugh. 

Billy gives a small shrug, taking a long draw on his cigarette, and smiles more widely. “If not, at least I have something to read.” 

Warmth blossoms in Goody’s chest like a flower, aching with how deeply he wants to reach out for Billy, audience be damned. It delights some tender place deep in his heart that hasn’t seen daylight for a very long time to see Billy so quietly pleased by the gift. Perhaps they’ll always have to hide, but that doesn’t seem so terrible when he can still seek out every chance to see that soft, private little smile and know that it’s for something he did.

If nothing else, dinner is everything that was promised, a rich and well-seasoned stew far beyond anything they’ve ever stirred themselves to when preparing their own evening meal out on the trail. It’s served to them by a matronly woman older than most of the settlers, who to Goodnight’s mild internal panic flirts playfully with him as she passes over the bowl. It’s been a long time since he was last in a position to tactfully field anyone’s attentions under the eye of a paramour, and he’s not sure that he’s ever had to do so while unable to simply point out said paramour by way of explanation.

He plasters on a charming smile and manages to politely deflect without making too much of a fool of himself. From the knowing amusement in Billy’s eyes, he’s not sure he wholly succeeded at the latter, but he’ll make as much an idiot of himself as necessary to see amusement there instead of hurt.

Not that they’ve spoken about what they expect from each other in terms of fidelity in any depth, of course. Their relationship is by its nature not one that promises a simple, well-defined path toward vows and ceremonies, and he feels somewhat at a loss for what may be inappropriate when conventional morality holds that their relationship is inherently so. But even had they agreed upon a more flexible arrangement, Goody would like to think that he wouldn’t be so gauche as to seriously proposition one potential paramour right in front of another.

After dinner, the campfires are allowed to die down, and slowly but surely the settlers begin to disappear into their tents. Tentless, Goodnight lays his bedroll down by one of the fires and prepares to get what sleep he can before taking his turn on watch.

Even with the heat radiating out from the embers of the campfire, it still feels cold beyond the physical to be curled into his blankets alone, without Billy’s solid warmth pressed in against his side. He hadn’t truly realised how lonely it felt to bed down alone until he’d been given something better.

Despite his best efforts, sleep does not come easily. Part of it, of course, is the simple fact of the easy pace doing little to wear him out, but he’d be a liar if he claimed the greater part wasn’t the absence of Billy’s steadying presence by his side. Even leaving aside the intimacy of the past few weeks, it’s been a long time since the last night they weren’t bedding down across the campfire from each other, or sharing a room in a run-down hotel.

After tossing and turning in his blankets for a time, eventually he manages to slip into a restless, uneasy doze. His dreams are unsettling echoes of the empty space beside him.

He feels more tired than he had when he’d first laid his bedroll down when Billy shakes him awake to take his turn on watch later that night. But he musters up a weary smile with which to assuage the concerned look Billy gives him, rising to take his turn without complaint. Shrouded in the darkness of the sleeping camp, he feels bold enough to catch Billy’s hand in his and squeeze gently.

“Sleep well, chéri,” he murmurs softly.

The rest of the journey continues much as the first day had. They keep pace with the wagon train westward along the old spanish trail, spending their days scouting the trail and their nights keeping watch. Through it all, Goodnight valiantly pretends that he’s sleeping, that what snatches he does manage aren’t haunted by nightmares. It’s only two weeks, after all. He can manage two weeks.

Billy isn’t so easily fooled as their other travelling companions, of course. There’s precious little reassurance Goody can give him when they have to be so careful not to draw undue attention to their closeness. The best he can manage are soft, fleeting touches in the dark that could be mistaken for platonic by sleepy eyes, and a quiet promise that after this their nights will be theirs again.

After the third night he spends staring sandy-eyed at the vault of stars above him, a restless, nightmare-haunted doze lingering just beyond his reach, Goodnight gives up on sleep entirely and reaches for his saddlebags.

The journal he’d bought in El Paso holds an almost overwhelming potential in the promise of its blank pages; he hesitates, pen hovering just over the for-now unspoiled paper. It’s been a long time since he last felt any desire to immortalise his words. They’re disposable things for the most part, holding little value beyond the smokescreen they weave to hide him from the danger of anyone truly seeing him. Anything meaningful he has left inside him he’s more inclined to drown in cheap whiskey than to carve the scar in anew by putting words to it.

But there have been more moments these past few weeks that he wants to linger over than there have been in years. He wants to commit them to words, to have something solid to come back to and read and feel again after they’re gone. The only question is where to start.

He glances up at the stars glittering coldly above, and is struck by the memory of how Billy had looked, lit by moonlight and haloed in smoke, on a bitterly cold night in Missouri what feels like a lifetime ago.

He lowers his head and starts to write.

They leave the more well-travelled trail and turn north at Salina, striking out toward Salt Lake City. It's monotonous country, all flat scrubby plains cradled by bare mountains, but the lack of aesthetically pleasing scenery does provide the advantage of a clear line of sight in all directions. It has the fortunate side effect of relieving them of the need to scout ahead for danger, and even if he’s still sleeping poorly, it’s an immeasurable lift to Goody’s spirits to be able to ride alongside Billy during the day again. 

It’s one greater still to crest a low hill and finally see Salt Lake City on the horizon.

It’s an odd place, the landscape dominated by a sparsely-populated grid of streets, the skeleton of a larger city hoping to one day be built. The spires of the great church loom over every other building; it commands the attention, the eye drawn to it as though by some strange kind of hypnotism. All told it’s thoroughly unnerving, and Goodnight honestly thinks he’s never been more relieved to ride into anywhere in his life.

The sun is low in the sky when they part ways. The settlers are quite determined to offer them lodgings for another night; Goodnight refuses as firmly as possible without forsaking good manners entirely. They’re perfectly charming people, and good company in their own way, but come hell or high water he’s spending tonight with nothing but Billy and a bed for company in a locked hotel room. 

They linger only long enough to collect their payment and say some perfunctory goodbyes before setting out in pursuit of that goal. It’s not difficult to find a room at a local boarding house. Among the new arrivals and other travellers passing through, they don’t stand out. The few glances they attract in passing as they mount the stairs are incurious.

As the door swings shut behind them, Goody breathes a sigh of relief, resting his forehead against the cool wood. It feels like laying down a burden he’s been carrying for far too long to know that they’re finally alone together, free from the everpresent threat of prying eyes.

There’s a creak of floorboards behind him; he feels the radiant warmth of Billy’s body a heartbeat before the touch lands, arms sliding familiarly around his waist and the warmth of Billy’s body pressed along the length of his back broken only by the slight dig of his knifebelt. Under the simple closeness they’ve been denied for so long, Goody is helpless to do anything but melt into it. For a few precious moments, there’s nothing in his head but how right it feels to have Billy’s arms around him.

“I’ve missed this,” he murmurs. Billy makes a soft noise of agreement, brushing a kiss over the back of his neck.

He turns in Billy’s arms and catches his lips in a kiss, slow and lingering as though carefully committing every detail of it to memory: the solid warmth of Billy’s body against his, the taste of smoke on his lips, the way his arms tighten and his breath hitches as the kiss grows deeper. When it breaks, he tucks his face into the crook of Billy’s neck and breathes him in, shivering for the way Billy’s fingers stroke gently through his hair.

“So,” he says eventually, raising his head and giving a playful smile. “Whatever shall we do with the rest of our evening?”

Billy leans in and presses a soft kiss against his lips. “We should get dinner.”

Goody can’t help but laugh, the sound startled out of him. “Well that wasn’t _exactly_ what I had in mind,” he says, arching an eyebrow. “Really, chéri. We’ve only now managed to find ourselves some privacy, and you want to leave again?”

“I’m hungry,” Billy replies with a shrug, simple and matter of fact. If Goody were invested enough in appearing indignant to pretend not to be eternally delighted by Billy’s straightforward bluntness, any reserves of stubbornness he might have drawn upon would have been thoroughly overwhelmed by the tenderness of the touch as Billy cups a gentle hand around his jaw and leans in to kiss him again.

“We have all night,” he says softly. Goody smiles. 

“Well, when you put it like that, I suppose we do.”


	11. I need some comfort just like you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals in some depth with sexual miscommunication/two characters not being on the same page about what they both want. It's relatively mild, but it could definitely be uncomfortable for some readers. Proceed with caution if this is a particular sore spot for you.

While Salt Lake City isn’t so far north that they need seriously worry about Billy’s Northern Pacific bounty catching up with him, it’s enough so that it would be imprudent for them to stray any _further_ north. Accordingly, when they ride out again, it’s with minimal discussion that they choose to take the California trail southwest.

The trail is a much more welcoming place than it was now that they’re no longer forced to keep to the snail’s pace of a wagon train, when they have the prospect of curling into their blankets together at the end of the day to look forward to. They ride side by side through the dust of the trail, close enough to reach out and brush their fingers together if they were so inclined, aimlessly sharing stories and discussing nothing of any consequence. They spend the first night tucked in close together in their blankets by the embers of the campfire. Goody lies awake for a long time, eyes on the moonlit clouds drifting by above and fingers wound into Billy’s hair, and for a few precious moments, feels at peace.

The greater part of the first few days are spent simply navigating around the lake. Though their path ultimately lies to the southwest, they choose to skirt the northern shore; it’s the longer road, and one which will take them over mountainous terrain, but better that than attempting to traverse the unforgiving landscape of the salt flats.

The teeming wetlands around the edges of the lake are rich with birds, great flocks of them wheeling through the sky to the west. They’re richer still with insects, according to the locals, but fortunately the necessity of sticking to solid ground spares them that experience. Scudding clouds cast great, shifting shadows across the land, carrying a tantalising promise of rain to cool the air but never quite following through.

They make good time along the road northward, crossing Bear River just east of Corinne on the second day. It’s raucous town, the long-suffering locals steering well clear of the freighters and stagecoach drivers who patronise the bustling saloons. They choose to stop off early and pass their evening there, and it’s quickly proven to be a profitable decision; the denizens of the various saloons apparently have quite the head of steam to blow off, and it takes scarcely any effort on their part to drum up a quick-draw contest.

If Goody had been dubious but willing to take Billy at his word that he was healed enough for it back in Santa Fe, he has no such reservations now. No-one who didn’t know of it would guess at the presence of the now-healed bullethole. There’s no hesitation in Billy’s stride as he takes his place in the corral, nothing but lithe surety in the way he moves. The rattlesnake-quick draw of his gun is all lethal, fluid grace.

Goody takes his place by the fence in full view of the crowd and smokes idly, fully wrapped in the persona of his legend with fleurs-de-lis glinting on his lapels to remind any sore losers that discretion is the better part of valour. And if the greater part of his attention is devoted to the quite distractingly appealing picture his partner makes, well, that’s no-one’s business but his.

“Enjoy the show?” Billy asks lightly as they walk away from the corral some hundred dollars richer than they’d arrived. A glimmer of amusement in his eyes betrays his otherwise inscrutable expression.

"Am I really so transparent?" Goody replies, bumping their shoulders together gently in a playful nudge.

Billy shrugs and gives a small smile. "I know you."

"Better than most, darlin"," Goody agrees. He smiles blandly at a passing citizen, mercifully out of earshot, and adds, deadpan, "Especially biblically."

The comment startles a snorted laugh out of Billy; he casts Goody an incredulous look and glances around them before shaking his head, a small, private smile on his lips. Goody knows he should guard his tongue more closely, especially here in town, but damned if it doesn’t feel worth any risk just to make Billy laugh.

Even after resupplying — including a bottle of whiskey to celebrate the newly replenished state of their funds — they’re still left with more than enough money in their pockets to comfortably see them through to civilisation. It’s a comforting weight to have lifted as they prepare to set out on their way again. 

The weather stays fair as they continue westward, aiming to join the California trail at the upper reaches of the Humboldt River. Summer is definitely well and truly fading by that time, the days growing shorter and the chill in the air biting a little deeper at night. Even on a well-travelled trail, they’ll have to push hard to be sure of making it through the mountains before the snows make them impassable.

Vegetation and water both grow steadily more scant and of poorer quality as they follow the river west. For two men travelling light on horseback, it’s a hard enough road; looking at the dry brush and muddy waters, it’s hard to imagine how wagon trains of settlers could possibly make their way through with dozens or hundreds of mouths to feed.

The river is mercifully low at this time of year, sluggish and easy to ford, leaving Carlin Canyon easily passable. This late in the year, they see few other travellers on the road. The slow-moving wagon trains are already long gone, out past the forty mile desert; they’ll need to be well into the Sierra Nevada by now to have any hope of making it to the far side before the winter snows.

The quicker pace of a barely-laden horse leaves them a great deal more flexibility, and they elect to make camp at Gravelly Ford, taking a day for they and their horses both to rest and recover before making the approach to the desert. The banks of the river are still all coarse scrub and brittle yellow grass, reeds rustling dryly in the cracked mud, but compared to the parched land beyond it’s an oasis.

They hobble the horses and leave them near the riverbank to drink or graze at their leisure as they set up camp just above the high water line. It’s unlikely that the level of the river will rise dramatically over the course of a day — not at this time of year with spring snowmelt a distant memory — but it pays never to be blasé when dealing with mother nature. She punishes overconfidence harshly.

While they haven’t been riding especially hard, it’s nevertheless a very pleasant change of pace to take a lazy afternoon to do nothing but relax by the side of the river. A few trailed lures in the water net them some scrawny trout, which roast well over the campfire and make for a very welcome alternative to the trail rations they’ve been living on since Corinne. After dinner they break out the bottle of whiskey; by the time sunset flares and fades along the horizon, bringing a cooler nip to the air, they’re delightfully warm and tipsy, kissing soft and unhurried in the golden firelight.

It never feels any less like a gift to be able to kiss the taste of smoke and whiskey from Billy’s lips, to feel his breath hitch and shivers run through him for the slide of tender fingers through his hair. The pace they set is slow and languid as they strip each other out of their clothes, taking the time to savour the whisper of the rapidly cooling evening air against their skin as it's bared and the familiar press of hands and lips.

Goody reaches blindly for his saddlebags, fumbling through them as best he can without pulling away from Billy, until his fingers brush up against the bottle he's searching for. The glass is cool against his palm after the heat of skin fevered with desire, just the knowledge of the purpose of that little bottle enough to have greedy want shivering over his skin. 

He’s moving to uncork it when he’s stopped by Billy’s fingers curling around his wrist; he looks up, startled. Billy’s lips are just slightly pursed, his gaze contemplative in the way of a man coming to a decision. There’s a trace of something almost nervous in his eyes that has a note of worry cutting through the haze of lust, but before Goody can put voice to any question, Billy takes a deep breath and says with certainty, “I want to try.”

For a long moment Goody can’t quite make sense of his meaning, some thoughtless joke about his confidence in Billy succeeding caught on his lips. And then understanding hits like a bullet, and he’s struck by a wave of helpless lust so all-consuming he feels as though he might drown under it.

He swallows hard and cups his free hand around Billy’s cheek, awed anew by how much trust he’s being offered as he leans in to take a tender kiss. “Whatever you want, chéri, it’s yours,” he promises softly, nudging their foreheads together. He’d made the same promise the first night they spent together as lovers, and with everything in him he intends to keep it. He has no intention of being careless with the trust Billy is willing to give him.

The little bottle in his hand suddenly feels a great deal heavier than it had a few short moments ago, laden down with a dizzying sense of significance, of responsibility. He feels almost more nervous than he had the first time they’d tested these waters with their roles reversed. The prospect of a little pain along with his pleasure hadn’t seemed so terrible a thing, but some deeply-seated part of him is adamant that in this situation it would be unacceptable. He’d never forgive himself if he hurt Billy out of carelessness.

Their campfire is an island of light amid the vast darkness of the wilderness all around them, warding off the chill of the breeze sighing in the dry grass as Goody slides tender hands over the lean lines of Billy’s body, nudging him to roll over onto his stomach. He makes a truly breathtaking sight laid out against the blankets, relaxed and trusting as he bares his undefended back. Goody swallows hard around the sudden tightness in his throat and leans down to press a soft kiss against his shoulderblade.

“Oh, mon amour,” he murmurs, low and reverent. “You’re beautiful like this.”

This close, he can’t help but feel the shiver that runs through Billy for the words, for the kiss, for the warm weight of the body braced just over his own. After the years they’ve travelled together, he knows well that it’s not in Billy’s nature to let himself be vulnerable lightly. It means something, that Billy is willing to offer him this. It means more than he thinks he’s ever had from another person.

He brushes another tender, fleeting kiss over the back of Billy’s neck before straightening up and setting the bottle aside for a moment. They’ll be needing it again shortly of course. But it’s not very often that they have all the time in the world to savour each other to their hearts’ content, not having to spare a thought for thin walls or parted curtains. There’s nothing out here but them and the stars, and he has no intention of squandering a single moment of the night by rushing through it.

His touch is light at first as his thumbs trace a line up the length of Billy’s spine before digging in just below the nape of his neck, kneading the muscle in small, firm circles. A soft, pleased noise falls from Billy’s lips as he relaxes a little deeper into the blankets, all lazy, catlike contentment. He can still scarcely believe that he could really be so fortunate as to see Billy like this; his eyes closed, the line of his shoulders relaxed, all of his defences lowered for a few rare, precious moments.

By the time the unhurried, methodical path of Goody’s hands has wound its way down to the small of Billy’s back, he feels half in a trance, every fibre of his being attuned to the steady rise of fall of Billy’s ribs with his breath, to the barely audible noises of contentment and satisfaction on his lips. Warmth curling fond and familiar in his chest, he lays a kiss against the curve of Billy’s spine, and reaches for the bottle again.

He’s never in his life touched anything with so much reverent care as he does slowly rubbing two oil-slicked fingers up against Billy; firm but not quite probing yet, acquainting him with the touch. His stomach twists with nerves as Billy tenses a fraction, but after a moment he uncoils again, relaxing back into the blankets, and Goody remembers how to breathe. He feels as though he’s been handed something precious and fragile, a rare treasure which might crumble to dust if he touches it carelessly.

The night air is cool against the overheated flush of his skin, his heart pounding in his chest as he slowly coaxes Billy to open for him with gentle, patient touches. His head is spinning with the promise in the slick heat which greets him, but he draws on what reserves of self-discipline he has at his command to push the thought aside, and let himself focus on nothing but making sure that he doesn’t do harm by pushing ahead too eagerly. He’s quite sure he’s never devoted so much concentration to any one task before as he does to reading the clench and yield of muscle around his fingers, attentive to every shiver and hitched breath which might tell him when to press on and when to pause.

He lowers his head to press a tender kiss against the side of Billy’s neck. “Still with me, darlin’?” he murmurs, crooking his fingers playfully. Billy shudders.

“You can keep going,” he says softly, almost inaudible as he turns his head to nuzzle into Goody’s temple. The unthinking affection in the touch warms Goody down to his bones.

The pace he sets is excruciatingly slow, an exquisite torture he hadn’t known he possessed the patience to endure. It’s only when he has three fingers sliding in easily to the last knuckle that, finally contented that his preparations have been thorough enough, he eases his fingers free. Aching fondness and breathless excitement are tangling dizzyingly together in his chest as he sits back on his heels and strokes a familiar hand over the curve of Billy’s hip.

“Turn over for me, chéri,” he says softly, the heat coiling in the pit of his stomach tempered by a tender warmth. “I want to see your face.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence for an answer. Billy sets his palms flat against the blankets, braced to turn but making no move to follow through; Goody frowns, the hesitation sounding a note of caution at the back of his mind. But before he can say anything else, Billy gives a soft sigh and obliges, rolling over onto his back. Propped up on his elbows, he turns his face away slightly as his gaze skirts just shy of meeting Goody’s. He isn’t hard.

Something icy crawls down Goody’s spine, a shocked jolt like missing a step in the dark as his chest constricts sharply. For the first time in a long time he finds himself at an utter loss for words.

He reaches out with a shaking hand — slow and hesitant, unsure of how the touch will be received — to gently cup Billy’s cheek. Billy closes his eyes, turning his face into Goody’s palm and taking a slow, steadying breath. Goody gives a sharp, shuddering exhale and curls his free hand into Billy’s hair as he leans in to press their foreheads together. A wave of pitiful relief washes over him so intensely he feels dizzy with it as Billy’s arms come up around him in response without hesitation.

Disgust with himself that he hadn’t noticed something was wrong sooner is warring in the pit of his stomach with desperate gratitude that at least things hadn’t gone any further, leaving him hollow and empty in their wake. The thought that he might have been so careless in seeking out his own pleasure is sickening. Even if he were here with a meaningless fling, he wouldn’t want to think of himself as the kind of man who’d ignore a partner’s discomfort; the thought of betraying the years of trust and loyalty he and Billy have between them, however inadvertently, doesn’t bear contemplating.

He strokes gently through Billy’s hair and across his shoulders, fingers still trembling ever so slightly as he reassures himself that Billy’s here and whole and still curled in close against him as though neither of them have ever belonged anywhere else. His breath feels caught in his throat, hitching rough and unsteady as he closes his eyes and takes what solace he can in their continued closeness.

“It’s okay, Goody,” Billy murmurs, nudging their noses together gently.

“You would have let me—” His throat constricts too sharply around the words to let him force the rest out. Billy’s arms tighten around him.

“I wanted to try,” Billy reassures him, his touch a comfort Goody can’t help but desperately cling to. “But I...” He pauses, considering his words. Eventually he shakes his head. “...from how much you enjoy it, I thought it would be...different.”

Goody pulls back enough to search his face, thumb stroking slow and gentle over his cheek. "If it's not to your taste it's not to your taste, chéri,” he says quietly, eyes serious. “I wouldn't want you to grit your teeth through something you don't enjoy for my sake."

Billy regards him in grave silence for a long moment before leaning in to kiss him soft and deliberate. Goody is helpless to do anything but melt into it, lifting his face to the warmth of Billy’s presence like a flower turning toward the sun. 

The cool night breeze whispers over their bare skin as they settle into a more relaxed embrace in their nest of blankets, sighing in the sea of dry grass as the river babbles on beyond the circle of firelight. Billy lazily unearths a cigarette from the depths of their discarded pile of clothing and lights it on a twig snared deftly from the smouldering edges of the campfire. The smoke hangs in the air, curling around them all sickly sweetness.

They pass the cigarette back and forth in silence for a time, until the world outside the warmth of their blankets seems too hazy and far away to be worth concerning themselves with. Goody sighs and tucks his face into the crook of Billy’s neck, breathing in the scent of him. Billy’s fingers card idly through his hair and trace abstract patterns over the nape of his neck, gently soothing away the lingering threads of sick unease still wrapped in tight around his lungs. His own hands can’t help but wander, mapping out the familiar lines of Billy’s body as though to reassure himself that no harm has been done. 

Guilt is a burden well worn to the shape of his shoulders by long years of carrying it. He might have said that by now surely any weight which might be added to it would make no difference; after all, a dozen bullets will kill a man as surely as a hundred. But he knows in his bones that this would be too much to bear. After enduring so much loss, he couldn’t bear to know that he’d been so careless with the one good thing he’s been given.

“Don’t dwell on it,” Billy says into the silence, smoke coiling on his lips as he speaks.

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to do anything else,” Goody replies a little more sharply than he’d intended. When Billy doesn’t respond he sighs and reaches out to take the cigarette. “Chéri, it matters to me that I take care with your trust. If I’ve strayed over a line, I want you to tell me.”

Billy’s still idly stroking fingers tighten in his hair, soft lips brushing over his temple. “I do trust you,” he murmurs, and even now, warmth blossoms in Goody’s chest just to hear it said aloud. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Goody inhales deeply, the familiar cloying taste of the smoke filling his senses as he holds the cigarette out for Billy to take back. Billy leans in instead and kisses the smoke from his lips. His eyes are serious when he pulls back, searching Goody’s face for a long moment before stealing another quick kiss and taking the cigarette, settling back in against the blankets.

“I knew for a long time,” Billy says matter-of-factly. “That you wanted me.” 

Goody looks up sharply enough to make the world swim dizzyingly in front of his eyes, embarrassment flushing hard and fast across his cheeks. He almost doesn’t want to ask for how long Billy means; the thought that he’d been so obvious when he’d been striving to keep what he believed were wholly unrequited feelings to himself is not a pleasant one to contemplate.

“Ignorance is bliss,” he replies lightly, feigning an ease he doesn’t feel. “If I were making a fool of myself, I think I would be happier not knowing about it.”

Billy props himself up on an elbow, the smouldering end of the cigarette reflected in the depths of his eyes. “Goody,” he says patiently, “Listen to what I’m saying. I knew for a long time. It was never...” He pauses, seeming to give his words some consideration. Goody, throat far too tight with nerves, reaches out to stroke gentle fingertips over Billy’s flank. The warm reality of his closeness is a sorely-needed comfort right now.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he says softly.

Billy shakes his head. “It’s important,” he replies without hesitation. “Goody, I trusted you. I knew that if I wasn't interested, that would be the end of it. You're not the kind of man who'd press his attentions somewhere they weren't wanted.”

Goody can do nothing but stare, completely caught off guard. He certainly wouldn't ever have wanted to think of himself as such, but self doubt is an insidious thing; he wasn't prepared to hear it stated with such matter of fact certainty by someone whose good opinion he values so desperately. Part of him wants to deflect, to play it off with some self-deprecating joke, but to do so feels disrespectful to the confidence Billy has just imparted. He wouldn't want to lessen this.

Instead he swallows hard around the tightness in his throat and reaches for Billy’s free hand, lacing their fingers together. “I meant what I said, chéri,” he says softly, eyes on their joined hands. “It matters to me that I take care with your trust. I wouldn't want to take anything that wasn't freely offered.”

Billy leans in and kisses him softly. “I know,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t have chosen this if I didn’t believe that.” Something in Goody’s chest aches with the simple, unselfconscious sincerity in those words. With everything in him he wants to believe in what Billy sees in him. He wants to be the man Billy thinks so worthy of his trust.

Goody regards him seriously, searching his face for a long moment before speaking. “I need you to tell me if you aren't enjoying something,” he says eventually. “Promise me, darlin'. It's important.”

“I will,” Billy agrees, squeezing his hand gently.

Somewhat placated if not wholly satisfied, he lets himself relax again, laying his head on Billy’s chest and listening to the reassuring steadiness of his heartbeat. Billy’s fingers stroke with absent tenderness through his hair. While what passion he’d felt previously has been thoroughly doused by the cold shock of realisation, it’s beyond him not to be warmed by the closeness.

He doesn’t deserve this. It’s a simple truth that sits in his chest with the same inescapable certainty as the way he knows his own name. But for so long as this is what Billy wants, he'll try with everything in him to ensure that he never gives Billy a reason to regret choosing it.


	12. drowning in the flood of morning light

In the end, they clear the mountains before winter sets in, but only barely.

The last stretch of their route down out of the Sierra Nevada from Carson Pass is hard, snow falling with an unhurried constancy from the sky and mounting up into deep drifts along the trail. They make the best use they can of any shelter they can find, pitching camp in the lee of rocky overhangs or groves of bare-limbed trees. The fires they can coax from damp deadwood are pitiful things, and more and more they rely on the shared warmth of their bodies to see them through the night.

Though the air stays chill as they come down out of the mountains, the snow eases off and drifts slowly give way to a light dusting over the frozen ground, allowing them to make better time. Eventually, cold and wet and exhausted, they come at last to Placerville. The sturdy buildings and lit lamps of the town look very welcoming indeed, offering a respite from the biting cold. 

They stable their horses and settle gratefully into the saloon, their presence passing unremarked upon amid a crowd of miners and townspeople similarly seeking to be warmed from without by the stove and within by the whiskey. After so long in the cold, the warmer air stings their frozen fingers and brings a flush to their faces.

Fortunately the escort job and their brief interlude in Corrine have bolstered their finances enough to leave them in a stronger position than they’ve been in for quite some time; enough so that they needn’t worry about making their way onward from Placerville until the weather has turned a mite more hospitable. They take a room at the hotel, a bustling brick building standing on the main street, and settle in to ride out the worst of the winter.

It’s only now, with a moment to catch their breath and rest, that the hardship of their long journey through the desert and over the mountains truly catches up with them; for the first few days they do little else beside sleep, curled close together in the warmth of their shared blankets in one of the room’s two narrow beds. Their breath still steams in the air when they poke their heads out, but the shared warmth of their bodies keeps them more than comfortable, and in the absence of a planned onward journey they have little reason to venture out into the cold.

The uneasy memory of their misstep back at Gravelly Ford is fresh enough in Goodnight’s mind that he hesitates to reach for any greater intimacy than simply dozing in each others’ arms, demurring gently when the touch of Billy’s hands on his skin grows more purposeful. If Billy is in any way dissatisfied with the relative innocence of their closeness, he shows no sign of it, patiently content to restrain himself to chaste affection.

Once, a few days in, he attempts to apologise for his reticence. Billy’s response is to curl a gentle hand under his chin and tilt his head up to kiss him soft and lingering. 

“This is enough,” he says simply. 

Despite the reassurance it still gnaws at Goodnight, the thought that after promising so much, after swearing so sincerely that nothing Billy might want to give him would be unwelcome, that through his own self-doubt he might be squandering their closeness. The notion that his fear of overstepping another boundary might cause Billy to feel unwanted is not a pleasant one to contemplate. But he’d promised as well to listen. If Billy says that this is good, that this is _enough_ , Goodnight will do him the courtesy of taking him at his word.

Those first slow days in the cocoon of their shared bed pass without event, and by degrees they come back to the land of the living. Even in the lull of winter, Placerville is still a hive of activity, bustling with traffic from the mining camps all around. The saloons and boarding houses of the town overflow with workers and travellers; it’s no great endeavour to find a card game or a conversation to pass the time. The food is simple, but there’s certainly no shortage of it.

There’s a battered old upright piano in a corner of the saloon; Goodnight earns them some goodwill — and no shortage of drinks bought for them besides — by coaxing a few tunes from it. It’s been a long time, but as soon as his fingers touch the keys, they slip easily into the steps of a dance his mama’s hands once guided him through a lifetime ago. Billy takes up station nearby and watches him play, a soft smile teasing at his lips that makes a pleased flush rise on Goody’s cheeks.

More than anything else they still pass their time in their room together. Billy reads; his habit, Goodnight has learned in the long months since San Antonio, is to sell each book wherever they may be as he finishes it, and purchase a replacement with the proceeds. It’s a singularly practical way of minimising both the expense of such a pursuit and the burden of their weight and bulk in his saddlebags. Placerville is hardly a great cultural edifice, but apparently there is enough literature to be had thereabouts that Billy has little trouble replenishing his stock.

It does tug at something wistful and melancholy in his heart, to think of that slim volume of Poe he’d gifted Billy back in Santa Fe passing on through other hands. But there’s something pleasing too in knowing that from it, there will be new tales to take pleasure in.

It’s strange to think, raucous as mining towns invariably are, but there’s nonetheless a peace to this interlude that Goodnight is quite sure he hasn’t felt for a very long time. Perhaps it’s the chill dark of the long nights, the rest of the world seeming very distant indeed somewhere beyond the scattering of snow drifting soundlessly down from the low, heavy clouds; perhaps it’s the easy quiet they share along with the warmth of their bodies in the privacy of their room. But more than anything else, he’s sure, it’s the air of calm Billy carries with him, and the steadying comfort of his presence.

By gentle degrees Billy coaxes him back to a greater intimacy, slow and tender and ever patient, quick to remind of his promise to say if anything isn’t to his taste. Even in the relatively short time they’ve been more to each other than partners, Goody has already noted that Billy isn’t naturally inclined to be an especially vocal lover; he knows it’s for his benefit that Billy murmurs soft praise and encouragement against his lips, unabashed in requesting precisely what he wants. Self-doubt still whispers insidiously of the liberties he might unwittingly be taking, but it’s easy to push the thought aside when he has Billy relaxed and smiling in his arms, his touch all tender affection.

Winter passes somewhere outside the warm, sleepy haven of their room, and as snowmelt swells the creek outside the town, at last they turn their attention to the road ahead.

The first blush of spring sees them bound for the south, the mountains reaching skyward far to their left as they follow the road through winter-brown grass and bare-limbed trees dusted with the first green buds of nascent leaves. That they thread their way down out of the foothills of the Sierra Nevada as the seasons turn seems only to hasten winter’s fading, leaving the still-snowcapped peaks behind them as they turn westward into the warmer climes of Sacramento Valley.

They’re in no great hurry to go anywhere in particular, and as such they keep to an easy pace. As the rugged foothills give way to the rolling green of the valley, so too are the rowdy mining towns gradually superceded by more sedate farming settlements. They take what opportunities come their way to replenish their funds, but there’s little sense of urgency to it, the stakes low and their pockets already comfortably flush. Fortune favours them; their meandering journey southwest is an uneventful one.

As they continue onward, gradually a salt tang begins to suffuse the breeze, gulls calling in the distance. Until at last the trail crests a hill, and they see laid out before them the blue waters of the Pacific stretching out to the far horizon.

It’s been a very long time since Goodnight last strayed so far west. When wandering the seemingly endless plains and forests of the only land he’s ever known, it’s easy to forget how abruptly their world comes to an end; a hard line he knows in his heart that he’ll never venture beyond. That knowledge, spelled out so eloquently in nothing but open water, has a way of making a man feel very small indeed.

Somewhere beyond that far horizon, thousands of miles of ocean away, is the land that gave him Billy. It’s strange to think, for all that Billy is so central and vital a part of his life, that he’ll never see it. 

Billy is quiet as they join the Camino Real east of Santa Cruz and follow it northward, tracing the coastline. Not that he’s the loudest of men at the best of times, but after years constantly in one another’s company, Goodnight is well acquainted with the texture of his silence. There’s a distant air to the way he watches the moonlight glimmer on the waves when they’re camped out at night, and Goodnight can’t help but wonder if perhaps Billy’s thoughts are straying along similar lines; to the home he left behind so many years ago, and might well never return to. It’s enough to put any man in a pensive frame of mind.

Even now, well established in a more intimate relationship, it’s not their way to ask questions. The past is a dangerous place, the rose tint of nostalgia providing ample cover for ambush from painful memories; Goodnight would not presume to pry when he knows well that he has no idea what manner of old hurt he might call to mind by it. But neither would he want to let it pass unacknowledged. He offers what simple support he can with his closeness when Billy seems to drift, their shoulders pressed in close by the campfire and his hand gently seeking out Billy’s. From the softness of Billy’s smile and the way his fingers tighten in Goody’s, he thinks it helps.

Spring blossoms into summer, the sun hot overhead and the hills ablaze with wildflowers as they continue northward through San Jose, and on from there to skirt the bay. They see no shortage of fellow travellers, laden wagons trundling along and men on horseback both. The road only grows busier as they continue on, and come at last to San Francisco.

The city sprawls out as far as the eye can see, abustle with activity; the bay is alive with ships from fishing skiffs to mighty steamers, clustered in around the wharfs. The crowds chatter in a dozen different languages as they thread through the cable cars moving ponderously up the precipitous streets. To come to any city after a long journey is always a shock. San Francisco, sprawling and vibrant, is more so than most they visit.

A pleasantly cool breeze stirs the air as they make their way through the streets, alleviating the closeness of the throng of people somewhat. For all the streets are busy though, there seem to be a disproportionate number of boarded up storefronts. Here more so than in smaller towns, the hard times upon which mining country has recently fallen are difficult to mistake. 

There had been whispers of course, but Goodnight had attributed much of it to the dire predictions always made by those who love to prophesy doom, assuming that Placerville at least was quiet more due to the harshness of winter than anything else. But here in the city, it seems that around every corner is another well-to-do sort speaking in anxious tones of banks closing, of the price of silver falling, of the railroad boom faltering. More pervasive still are the tales of woe of the newly unemployed.

Billy, apparently overhearing conversations in languages unfamiliar to Goodnight, speaks quietly of riots and racial tensions, of neighbourhoods best avoided. More and more it becomes apparent that they have come to the city at a difficult time. Still, in every cloud there is a silver lining, and times of trouble are often profitable for men such as they who make their living mostly through gambling and other such less than respectable means.

They stable their horses and take a room near Portsmouth Square. In a rare reversal of their usual roles, the greater part of the talking falls to Billy; in this area of the city, Goodnight’s clearly european heritage earns him skeptical looks at best. Even if he stands little chance of comprehending the conversation save in broad strokes of tone and body language, much less contributing, there’s a delightful fascination in hearing the familiar sound of Billy’s voice wrapped around so alien a tongue.

“I hope you weren’t promising to sell me on, or anything else untoward,” he teases lightly as they climb the creaking stairs to their room.

Billy laughs. “Why?” he asks, all wholly feigned innocence. “Do you think I’d get a good price?”

Owing simply to being in the city, they’ve paid more than would typically be their habit for what turns out to be really a rather modest room. They have little need of more space though, and the simple furnishings are clean and well kept. With a window cracked open to let in the breeze, the room is pleasantly cool, the sounds of conversation and music drifting in along with the tantalising scent of something well-spiced simmering nearby.

Mercifully less pronounced in this part of the city are the preparation rampant everywhere else for the forthcoming Fourth of July celebrations, a display of patriotism Goodnight finds immensely uncomfortable at the best of times. While if anything he’d prefer to avoid civilisation entirely around this time of year — something he generally manages quite successfully — in the city at least perhaps the festivities will be easier avoided than in small towns where little else of note occurs.

Over the next few days they take advantage of the pause in their journey to inquire after any work which might give them a direction in which to continue on, and a means to profit by it. Their options are slim, in light of the less than stellar fortunes the city is presently experiencing, but there are always opportunities to be had. All that is required is persistence.

Around them, the city continues to prepare for the Fourth of July, bunting strung between buildings and streamers hanging from windows. Much as he would rather be absent, there’s a novelty of sorts to the experience. After so long diligently avoiding the celebrations, the details are hazy in his memory of what, precisely, they entail in larger cities where more of an occasion is made of the day.

He’s reminded abruptly when the first firework bursts across the darkening sky. 

The light of it is scarcely more than a ghostly flicker in the windows, but the sharp artillery-fire report echoes between the buildings, seemingly coming from every direction at once. The sound strikes past rational thought, past the mundane knowledge that the war is near a decade and the span of a continent away, into an unreasoning place of visceral panic.

The sole mercy is that in the privacy of their room, only Billy is present to witness the way the colour drains from his face and the clarity of reason from his eyes, leaving him ashen and trembling and blind to all but old horrors. Instinct screams to run for cover; the paralysis of fear roots him to the spot, helpless to do anything but listen in devout terror for the tell-tale whine of the next mortar.

A light touch brushes his shoulder, and before he has any conscious awareness of the flight impulse, his back is already hitting the wall. The wood of it is coarse under his palms — flimsy, no defence — as he presses himself in against it, his pulse fluttering frantically in the hollow of his throat and his breath coming in desperate wounded-animal gasps.

By slow degrees he becomes aware of a soft, insistent murmur of his name somewhere beyond the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. He blinks, struggling to focus on anything other than old ghosts and all-consuming fear. His vision is swimming, grey specks swirling dizzily in front of his eyes, but somewhere through the haze is a glimmer of comforting familiarity.

“Billy?” he mumbles uncertainly, voice a raw croak from a throat tight with panic.

“I’m here,” is the steady, unhesitating response. “I’m here, Goody.” 

Goody shivers. He’s heard many old stories of the power of a man’s true name; in his more poetic moments he wonders if his whole life he’s been drifting from one pseudonym to another, waiting to be baptised anew by the soft way that familiar nickname falls from Billy’s lips.

Slow and easy as a handler with a spooked horse, Billy’s arms come up around him; he gives the convulsive gasp of a drowning man breaching the surface and folds into Billy’s embrace as though he has the strength for nothing else. They’re on the floor, he realises belatedly, as the reassurance of a familiar touch grounds him just enough for the reality of the tableau to begin to reassert itself: the bare boards of the floor under him, the wall at his back. Billy kneeling beside him, holding him like he means never to let go. 

There’s another sharp crack of a firework somewhere outside, and Goody flinches sharply. Billy wraps in closer around him, arms tightening protectively. “Breathe,” he says softly. Goody struggles to obey, drawing in shuddering gasps that do little to steady his racing heart. He tucks his face into the crook of Billy’s neck, clinging desperately to the comfort in the familiar scent of him and the promise of safety in the strength of his arms.

“I can’t,” he mutters, the words tripping over each other far too fast and shaky. “I can’t—”

“You can,” Billy reassures him, calmly implacable as his fingers stroke tenderly through Goody’s hair. “We’re here. We’re safe. I’ve got you.”

There’s another ringing artillery crack outside, and another, coming faster as whatever display the city has arranged begins in earnest. Goody shakes his head and curls closer into Billy’s arms, trying to concentrate on the warmth of Billy’s touch, on the rhythm of his heartbeat, on _anything_ but the terror threatening to consume him. “Talk to me, darlin’,” he pleads shakily, desperate for any distraction to ground him. “Please. Anything.”

There’s a long moment of uncertain silence, Billy’s fingers pausing where they’re still gently carding through Goody’s hair, in which he can’t help but wonder if he’s asking for something his taciturn partner isn’t sure how to give. But after what feels like an eternity the steady, comforting stroke of Billy’s fingers resumes, and low and soft, he starts to sing.

It’s quite unlike anything he’s ever heard before, something hypnotic in the way it rises and falls. If there are any words to it, they’re in no language he’s familiar enough with to pick them out. But he doesn’t need to understand the meaning to take comfort in the sound of Billy’s voice, in the knowledge that he has someone here with him who cares for him enough to want to in some small way make this easier on him.

Every crack of a bursting firework outside still trembles through his bones like the shock of a distant earthquake. But with the steady hum of Billy’s voice in his ears, he can at least slow his breathing from the ragged edge of mindless panic, tender touches grounding him in the here and now. Billy holds him tight as they ride out the display together, his song never wavering. Only when the fireworks fall silent does Billy finally follow suit.

“That was beautiful,” Goody says softly into the quiet.

“It’s a very old song,” Billy replies, his fingertips still tracing over Goody’s skin with an absent gentleness.

“What does it mean?” he asks. Billy turns slightly red, the novelty of which is enough to have Goody raising his head, intrigued. Billy’s flush deepens.

“It means...” he begins, and hesitates, still looking somewhat embarrassed. “...to take a darkness from someone, and...let go of it for them, where they can’t.” He gives a small shrug. “It’s just a superstition, but it was the first thing I thought of.”

Goody, helplessly touched, finds the words on his lips before he can second guess them. “I love you.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it. But before now it’s always been babbled in the heat of the moment when he’s delirious with pleasure, easily dismissed as impulsive and fleeting words from a man too far gone to mind what he’s saying. After all, a mouth will say all manner of foolish things when the mind behind it is consumed with passion.

In his heart, he knows that he meant it every time. But it had felt crass to force the issue when Billy hadn’t seemed entirely comfortable with the declaration. And why should he? Hesitating to put words to something doesn’t make it any less what it is. The trust and affection he’s been given, the care in the touch of Billy’s hands and the constant, unwavering steadiness of his presence mean so much more than hearing the words echoed back ever could.

Billy breathes a soft curse and cups his face in his hands, leaning in to kiss him tender and deliberate like a silent promise. His gaze is considering when he pulls back; he draws breath as though to speak, only to hesitate.

“I didn’t say it to hear it back, chéri,” Goody says quietly. “I said it because I need you to know that it’s true.”

“I know it is,” Billy says with a certainty that warms Goody down to his bones. He closes his eyes and leans their foreheads in together, and adds almost inaudibly, “I love you too.”

For the endless space between two heartbeats there’s nothing but shock. He’s never been so bold as to let himself imagine what those words would sound like on Billy’s lips. He’s never needed to hear them spoken. Not when no words could ever come close to how loved Billy’s patient, unwavering closeness makes him feel. But to hear this said...it means so much more than just the words.

Billy doesn’t waste his breath; he doesn’t speak carelessly. He knows that Billy wouldn’t say this unless he was certain of it.

He’s not sure if the shuddering gasps welling up on his lips are more akin to laughter or tears, the lingering threads of terror all tangled in around joy and relief, but it scarcely seems to matter when he has familiar arms coming up to tighten around him as he tucks his face into the crook of Billy’s neck. “Oh, darlin’,” he whispers. “I know. I know.”

If he’d indulged himself in picturing this moment, in picturing saying these words in earnest for the first time, he would not have pictured himself drained and still shaking in old fear with Billy kneeling beside him on bare floorboards all wide, vulnerable eyes. He would have pictured some moment of grand romance, fit for song and story. And it would never have come close to matching the perfection of this moment of beautiful, inglorious reality.


	13. I'm only human just like you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter ft rough sex of dubious sanity, although Billy at least is committed to making sure they check off “safe” and “consensual”. Goody would not know a healthy coping mechanism if he tripped over it.

They leave the drifting scent of spent gunpowder in the air behind them in San Francisco. 

The prickling unease crawling over the back of Goodnight’s neck, however, is not so easily evaded. It follows him, creeping up in quiet moments, part of him still sick with anticipating the sharp report of the next artillery crack of a distant firework. The memories it draws close to the surface are ugly, better forgotten. The man who saw those things is not someone Goodnight wants to be ever again.

As is his habit, he talks as they ride, weaving stories to fill the aching quiet. But even he can hear the manic edge to his usual gregarious flair. Billy’s gaze lingers on him as the words trip over each other with a clumsiness quite unlike him, half a beat too fast for fear of what might slip out in a moment of unguarded silence. He knows he’s worrying Billy, but he doesn’t dare stop. He doesn’t know what might happen if he does.

It will fade, he knows. It always does. There will come a time again when the things he’s seen and done feel safely far distant. But that knowledge helps him little now, when he feels flayed raw by the cruel immediacy of his memories, sick with the inescapable fact of the old blood still tainting his hands. Try as he might to run from the past, for all it may fall back it never falters, haunting him like some great owl drifting on silent wings through the night

The war is long over. But he knows well that just because the war is over doesn't mean you get to stop fighting, even if the only enemies left are inside your own head.

Through it all, of course, Billy is beside him. It’s Billy’s way to show his care in quiet, practical acts, and even now he continues to do so with implacable calm; matter-of-factly stealing Goodnight’s flask from his hands when he threatens to overindulge in the contents, replacing it with a water canteen with a stone-faced insistence that brooks no argument. In the spirit of practicality, he compromises by preparing less food than is their habit, lest their supplies go to waste needlessly, but he doesn’t let Goodnight away with refusing to eat.

At his most functional he’s never cared for himself so well as Billy cares for him even at his lowest. It does nothing to assuage his guilt, the thought that he’s a burden to Billy, and it stings what little remains of his pride that he’s sunk to being coaxed to eat like a fussy infant. But he hasn’t the gall to refuse Billy’s help when he knows full well that without it, he’d be in even more pitiful a state. Not for the first time, he wonders what he could possibly have done to earn such devotion.

His heart still aches sweetly for the quiet care in the touch of Billy’s hands, but the softness does nothing to ease the restless discomfort crawling over his skin. If anything it only makes it worse when he already feels sick with himself for being weak enough to accept Billy’s trust and loyalty when he knows full well that there’s nothing left in him worthy of it. Part of him lives in fear of the day Billy realises it. Some other, nobler vestige is disgusted with himself that he’d seek to postpone that day, when Billy deserves so much better than to go down with the wreck he’s found himself lashed to the wheel of.

By day they ride, the trail dusty and winding before them, and in fleeting moments here and there he almost forgets. In the light of day, he can distract himself with the practicalities of their journey, his whispering doubts briefly drowned out by the steady thud of shod hooves on the dirt of the road and regular judicious swigs from his hip flask. In the light of day he can almost forget. It’s when night falls that he struggles to hide from his thoughts, every fear magnified a thousandfold by the vast silence of the darkness pressing in on their circle of firelight.

In this, as in all things, he reaches to Billy for the comfort he so desperately needs. Wreathed in the hazy sweetness of their shared smoke, he can quiet his guilt for long enough to let him seek out a fleeting moment of blissful forgetting in the press of hands and mouths and bare skin. There’s an urgency to the pace of things on those nights, a trace of desperation in the way he offers himself to Billy. Shame would still his tongue should he try to admit it aloud, but it’s grounding to let someone else have use of him; to know that even after all the horror his hands have wrought, he still has it left in him to bring a lover pleasure.

He knows this unspoken trade happens only in his own mind; he has the wit to realise that Billy would likely be horrified by the very suggestion. But in the breathless moments afterwards, the warmth of Billy’s body relaxed and sated against him feels almost like forgiveness.

Just having Billy close is enough to let him breathe a little easier. When he wakes gasping and shuddering from the claws of formless nightmares in the cold watches of the night, it’s always to the low murmur of Billy’s voice in his ears, the reassuring familiarity of Billy’s arms wrapping in tight around him. In the warm darkness of their shared blankets, he can let himself be gentled.

The care Billy takes with him chafes sometimes. Even as he remains pitifully grateful to be treated as though he’s worth handling tenderly, a darker shame only digs its claws in deeper for every moment he’s so weak as to accept this undeserved gentleness. In these moods he can’t help but crave rougher handling, a callousness he knows in his bones Billy would never willingly give him; the sting of pain so sweet that in poor light it might almost pass for absolution.

It won’t help for more than a moment. He knows better than to believe that anything could truly lift this burden from him. But even the most fleeting relief feels like a blessing, imparting strength enough to carry on. After all this time he's intimately familiar for what it is for a mess of old hurts to become so chokingly tangled that anything which feels like penance makes it easier to breathe again.

With everything in him, he tries to keep his broken edges safely hidden away, far from where they could do Billy harm. He doubts that he wholly succeeds, but it feels a worthy effort nonetheless. It’s his own responsibility to answer the demands of his demons. Billy has already given him so much more than he could ever have asked; he’s loathe to invite the added guilt of asking for more still.

He lets Billy sleep peacefully through the restless nights where even a nightmare-haunted doze remains beyond him, easing himself free from their shared blankets under the eye of the cold stars. Some nights he’ll do little else beside stare into the embers of the campfire as he works his way through cigarette after cigarette, cultivating a fragile sense of calm; others, when the clamour at the back of his skull is too great to bear in silence, he’ll take the journal from his saddlebags and write until his fingers ache. 

He writes of the war, as though he could reduce the clamour of shouts and gunfire and shrieking horses, the reek of smoke and blood and fear that clings viscerally still to the edges of his nightmares, to mere ink on paper. He writes of the terrified, desperate cruelty he’s inflicted with his own trembling hands. Pinning his ghosts down on paper never seems to exorcise them for long, but even the briefest of respites is more than worth pursuing.

He writes of other things too, of the youth he left behind long ago and the naive, idealistic creature he once was. He writes of the endless trail and the budding towns it winds on through. More than anything else, he writes of Billy. This too he knows he could never truly capture in mere words; the loops and curls of his handwriting are a pale substitute for the beautiful reality of Billy’s eyes, of his smile, of the soft timbre of his voice. But in this attempt at least, there is no pain. Only soft awe at seeing it committed to paper that he truly has been permitted to hold so beautiful and transcendent a thing.

And in the quiet hours before dawn, pale light slowly creeping up over the horizon, he’ll settle back into their blankets and savour their closeness for as long as it lasts before Billy starts to stir. He doesn’t often manage to do more than doze in the time, but there’s something restorative simply in having the warmth of Billy’s body against his, and the steady beat of Billy’s heart under his palm.

He handles it as best he can, drawing strength from Billy’s unwavering support. But despite his best intentions the aching emptiness inside him, unsated, cries out to be filled. He can only deny it for so long.

They’re somewhere south of the Mojave, the air bone dry and heat still radiating from the rocks even after the sun has slipped below the horizon, when the tension wound through him like a taut wire finally reaches its breaking point. The desperate need for something, _anything_ to relieve the prickling unease crawling maddeningly over his skin is like a physical force pressing on the base of his skull.

On the trail he can do little to distract himself from it but talk, meandering and meaningless, punctuated with swigs from his hip flask. But when they’ve made camp for the night, when Billy interrupts another careless drink from the flask by curling his fingers around Goody’s wrist, he’s grateful enough for a distraction to latch onto that he doesn’t fight it. Instead he catches the front of Billy’s shirt in his free hand and pulls him into a hard, hungry kiss.

There’s a terrifying moment of stillness before Billy responds in kind, a desperate, shameful kind of relief twisting in the pit of his stomach for the way Billy’s fingers tighten around his wrist, for the edge of bite to the kiss. He lets the flask drop carelessly to the dirt — it’s near enough empty anyway, and this will help far more than the burn of cheap whiskey — and presses in closer.

His hands are shaking, the familiarity of long practice the only thing keeping him from fumbling uselessly as he tugs open the buttons of Billy’s waistcoat, eager for the feel of warm skin. He pauses only long enough to strip his own shirt off, shivering for the rapidly cooling evening air whispering over the flush of his skin, before returning his attention to clumsily unbuckling Billy’s belt. The rest of their clothes are quickly disposed of.

He avoids Billy’s eyes when he pulls away just enough to grope blindly through his saddlebags for the oil. He doesn’t know how to answer the question he knows he’ll see there.

They’re running low on oil again, but there’s enough to see them through to the next general store if they’re sparing; certainly there’s more than enough for tonight. He presses the bottle into Billy’s hand and steals another quick, demanding kiss before turning away to roll onto his hands and knees. He feels so exposed like this, so _vulnerable_ , but beside everything else even that is a relief. To be vulnerable in Billy’s hands is to be safer than he’s ever been in his own.

Billy’s touch is unbearably gentle where it slides familiarly over the curve of his hip, and it takes everything in him not to shy away from it; he can’t stand to be treated as though he’s worth handling with tenderness when it feels so far from true. He swallows down a more pitiful plea and presses his forehead into the blankets. “Don’t tease, chéri,” he murmurs, devoutly hoping they can both ignore the brittleness of his playful tone.

The groan of satisfaction he gives for the first slick finger that presses into him is torn from his throat, low and heartfelt as he rocks back needily into Billy’s touch. Lord but it’s still not enough. The stretch is delightful, but it doesn’t _burn_ like he craves. “More,” he gasps out, caught somewhere between a demand and a plea as he rolls his hips more urgently. The plea is answered readily with a second finger, but the pace remains too prudent to sate his impatience.

His groan this time is all frustration. “Stop,” he says; he feels Billy go still behind him at the words, pausing a moment before carefully easing his fingers free. No sooner has he withdrawn than Goody turns, the blanket coarse under his knees and Billy’s lips soft under a hungry kiss as he reaches out to take the bottle of oil. He perfunctorily slicks three fingers and sets about working himself open with a rough efficiency, even that more for Billy’s satisfaction than any need or want on his part. He needs Billy to fuck him. He needs it so desperately he can taste it.

The kiss, however, was apparently insufficient distraction. There’s a trace of alarm in Billy’s eyes when he pulls back, his grip tightening just a fraction too much in a way that sends a guilty thrill racing over Goody’s skin. “What are you doing?”

He nearly crumbles then and there. He can’t ask this of Billy. He can’t ask Billy to indulge him in these petty, self-flagellating drives, not when he scarcely knows himself from one moment to the next if he truly thinks it can help. Even the thought of bearing this alone is less terrifying than that of letting it taint the one truly good thing he’s been given.

It would be so, so easy to take refuge in a smokescreen of meaningless words; he can feel the glassy, false smile ready to rise to his lips, accompanying some glibly insincere reassurance. With some difficulty he swallows both down. The memory is far to fresh in his mind of how sick and empty he’d been left by the thought that he might have been careless with a lover’s trust for him to be willing to risk putting Billy through the same. The least he owes Billy in this is honesty.

Swallowing hard, he lowers his eyes and shakes his head, a tired sigh on his lips. “Chéri, these last few weeks I’ve felt as though I might shake apart at any moment,” he admits. “I don’t know that I could stand to be touched gently tonight.” He leans in to press a kiss against the hollow of Billy’s throat, taking some small comfort in the way Billy’s arms wrap in around him. “I need it rougher.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Billy says, soft and a little plaintive, and something inside Goody breaks.

“I don’t believe for a moment you ever would,” he replies, pulling back enough to look Billy in the eye. He’s never doubted that. And even if some part of him almost wishes it were otherwise, he can push it aside for long enough to make sure his voice and the touch of his hands are all reassurance. “I swear, darlin’, if it’s too much I’ll stop you.”

Billy regards him with grave eyes, clearly far from mollified. “I’m not sure we agree on what’s ‘too much’.”

Goody shudders and closes his eyes, not man enough to hold Billy’s gaze when he can feel himself teetering on the edge of throwing pride to the wind and begging. “Please,” he whispers, barely audible to his own ears over the pounding of his heart. “Please, mon amour, I need this. I need you.”

There’s the soft rush of a sigh, and Billy’s arms tighten around him. “If I think this is going too far, we stop.” 

His tone brooks no argument; the note of command in it sends a helpless shudder running through Goody, who swallows hard. “Always, amour,” he says softly. He hardly trusts his own judgement at the best of times, never mind in a desperate spiral such as this, but to his mind Billy’s judgement is above reproach. If he’s safe anywhere, he’s safe in Billy’s hands.

Billy nods, apparently finding that sufficient. “Turn around,” he instructs, concise as ever. “On your knees.”

Goody is nothing if not eager to obey, the simmering restlessness which he’s endured for what feels like a lifetime displaced at least in part by a lighter kind of anticipation. He feels feverish as he shifts to kneel on the blankets, the radiant heat of Billy’s body a tantalising fraction of an inch away at his back. A shiver runs through him as Billy wraps a hand around his wrists and holds them in place at the small of his back.

His breath hitches sharply as Billy twists three slick fingers back into him without further ado, his eyes fluttering shut and his lips parting around a low groan. The pace is still slower than he would have chosen to set, but the firm grip restraining his wrists adds a new element that has his heart beating faster and his breath coming short. He grinds down into the touch with a shuddering moan, heat coiling desperately in the pit of his stomach.

There’s a fleeting sting of teeth as Billy nips at the back of his neck. And then, with a nudge of his shoulder and a gently inexorable pressure of the hand wrapped firmly around Goody’s wrists, he pushes forwards; Goody takes the hint immediately and bends at the waist, leaning down until he can rest his forehead against the bedroll, a thrill running through him at the mere thought of the position he now finds himself in. Billy lays another nipping kiss against his shoulderblade before straightening and easing his fingers free. Hands still restrained behind his back and anticipation singing in his veins, Goody shamelessly spreads his legs wider.

It doesn’t burn when Billy presses into him, not like some deep and shameful part of him craves; he’s too well slicked for that, and needy with it besides. But the familiar sweet ache of it steals the breath from his lungs nonetheless, the bright flare of pleasure a desperately welcome distraction from the sick unease coursing like poison through his veins. He moans low and heartfelt into the blankets.

The first hard thrust has him arching and keening, desperately greedy for more. “Just like that, darlin’,” he breathes, fervent with the need to leave Billy in no doubt that this is what he wants, what he _needs_. He needs the bite of Billy’s grip around his wrists and at his hip, the anchoring comfort of the weight of Billy’s body pressing him into the blankets. He needs _Billy_ , more than he needs the blood in his veins.

It’s not enough to make him whole again. Nothing could be. But it’s enough to let him forget, even if only for the space of a few breathless moments. Here like this, there’s no room for doubt; no room for old, aching guilt to swirl and echo and grow powerful. There’s nothing but pleasure hot in his veins, the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears almost drowning out the steady rhythm of flesh on flesh. Drunk on the heady rush of want, for a few fleeting moments his mind finally goes blessedly, blissfully blank.

He buries his face in the blankets, a desperate noise that’s a hair away from a sob tearing out of his throat. Billy hesitates; he shakes his head, the words already on his lips before conscious thought can intercede. “Don’t stop,” he gasps out, “Please, god, don’t stop.”

Billy’s hand smooths over the curve of his hip and squeezes gently, all promise and reassurance, as he does what’s asked of him. Goody closes his eyes tight and does his utmost to bite back his sounds, to steady his shuddering breaths, loathe to further alarm Billy. With his face pressed into the blankets at least the tears which seep out to cling to his lashes need concern no-one but himself.

The pleasure humming through him is intoxicating. Lost in the sweet clench of his body yielding and the bright flare of heat which sparks with every thrust, he can do nothing but give himself over to it, moaning shamelessly as he goes pliant in Billy’s grip. He craves it so desperately it might scare him had he the clarity of thought to dwell upon it. To let everything else slip away and focus on nothing but the pleasure he’s offering to someone he loves...it feels almost like innocence.

Billy curses sharply, his grip tightening abruptly; Goody gives a low, heartfelt groan and grinds back greedily into the last few erratic thrusts, seeking his own release.

It rushes up sudden and overwhelming enough to drain the last of the strength from his limbs, leaving him weak and shaky in its wake. He would collapse unceremoniously onto the bedroll were it not for the strength of Billy’s arms wrapped in tight around him, supporting him. He’s mercifully too spent for the far too apt metaphor in that to stir more than a fleeting pang of guilt.

He can’t help but feel a strange sense of loss when Billy releases his wrists and carefully eases out of him. But there’s a comfort too in the way they settle into a comfortable sprawl together, Billy still pressed in close against the line of his back. He’s grateful at least that Billy isn’t trying to seek out his gaze. He turns his face away yet further, into the blankets, not wanting to have to explain the half-dried tear tracks he can still feel on his cheeks. How could he, when he doesn’t fully understand himself?

Billy’s hands are gentle as they move over his skin, mapping out every mark left behind. “I’m fine,” Goody murmurs, a flicker of unease stirring again inside him at the undeserved care.

“Indulge me,” is Billy’s unhesitating reply. And put like that, how can he do anything but? What went before was for his benefit; he knows this. If what Billy needs now is a moment of tenderness, to satisfy himself that all is well and no lasting harm has been done, of course he can do nothing but acquiesce to it. He’s never had the strength to deny anything Billy might ask of him.

After a time Billy sighs softly and his hands settle, apparently if not satisfied, then at least somewhat reassured. Goody hates that he’s so often a cause of worry for his lover, that he lacks the capacity which seems to come so naturally to others to steady themselves without the need for a guiding hand. It’s unfair to burden Billy with this. But he doesn’t know how to lift that burden other than by leaving, and something in him recoils at the mere thought of abandoning Billy.

Still, he can’t help but wish, with all the pleading, desperate bargaining of a condemned man, that he had ever known how to carry this weight alone.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he says softly, a sharp pang of regret in his chest that he can’t help but need this. Billy deserves so much better than even his best days, fleeting as they are; certainly he’s done nothing to earn such a punishment as having to handle him at his lowest. He wants with such earnest, aching desperation to find something good within himself to give to Billy; a rare gem cut from the coarse spoil around it, polished to brilliance to be kept and held long after the rest is gone.

Billy kisses him, slow and deliberate, like a promise. His eyes are serious when he pulls back, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips. There’s something more than mortal in his unwavering faith; to Goody, still tangled so in old hurt and fresh guilt, he looks nothing less than an angel.

“We’ll find our way,” Billy says. “We always do.”


	14. time is like a liquid in my hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, the last few weeks have been absolutely hectic and I've had no time to write. We're winding down for christmas at work though, so hopefully I'll be back on schedule with fic after this. Enjoy!

The seasons turn and time winds on under them, the steady rhythm of day and night marking the pace of their journeys like a heartbeat. No matter how long they travel, life on the road together worn smooth by habit as they make their way back and forth across the country, there always seem to be new paths to take, new vistas laid out before them over the crests of unfamiliar hills.

As the familiar routine of travelling still offers new sights after all these years, so too is their partnership an endless source of new delights even as it grows ever more well-worn and comfortable with the years. There’s a gentle satisfaction in mapping out the shape of it more fully, an innocent wonder which Goodnight had thought long since lost to him. It seems that only now he has it does he realise how pitifully starved he’d been for affection, for the tender delight of pleasing a lover. 

Lows still come, of course, as they always will. There will always be endless nights where he can’t breathe for the crushing weight of his sins, where any comfort or reassurance is twisted beyond recognition by the cruel mockery of his demons. But come what may, Billy is beside him through it all. By slow degrees he learns how to let Billy help him. It still rests uneasily with him, on the nights where the barest tenderness feels like more than any just world should give him, to let himself be handled gently. But to answer Billy’s unwavering love and support with a cold rebuff would be one last cruelty more than his conscience could bear.

In return he gives all that he can; his trust, his loyalty, his faith and devotion. He’s not a praying man, and lord knows there are a thousand reasons he might well be struck down should he ever presume to try and set foot in a church. But it feels like a sacrament all their own to whisper reverent echoes of the praise and poetry he commits to ink in the sleepless watches of the night against Billy’s skin, to be so blessed as to see his soft, private smiles and the way he flushes under it when Goody calls him beautiful. The simple, unselfconscious sincerity of the way _I love you_ sounds on Billy’s lips is the only benediction he needs.

If this is as close to heaven as they ever come, it will have been enough.

The leaves are turning to red and gold all around them as they make their way eastward through the newly-minted state of Colorado toward Apishapa Pass. The pass lies further north than is typically their habit to venture, but traversing the Rockies is no small matter: there are only so many options from which to choose. Once their road bears them through the mountains, out into the rippling golden grass of the Great Plains, it will be a much simpler affair to steer their course southward again.

It’s a lonely trail, far from any major overland routes or settlements of note. Here and there are scattered clusters of homesteads, but for long stretches there’s nothing but scrubby chico brush and dirt laid out in front of them, and the ever-growing shape of the Sangre de Cristo range on the horizon. The closer they draw to the mountains, the more startlingly precipitous the slope appears, thrusting abruptly skyward from the floor of the valley. Even armed with maps and the certain knowledge of a pass, the approach is an intimidating one.

They elect to pass the night in San Luis before making their way into the mountains in earnest. As frontier towns go, there is little to distinguish it, but the presence of a hotel and a saloon is all they ask. The next few days of travel will be difficult ones; a good meal and a night in an honest-to-god bed will do much to fortify them for the road ahead. 

The meal they are served is a welcome change from simple campfire fare, and the saloon blessedly well-stocked. As they pass their evening, however, it becomes increasingly apparent that some unspoken thread of unease is drawing tighter in the townspeople around them. It’s a subtle thing, but there are just a few too many shared glances, silences lasting an awkward beat too long when the conversation ebbs. The town of San Luis is inescapably on edge.

Wary of provoking some unexpected local tension, they are careful to keep their wits about them, indulging perhaps a little less generously in the offerings of the saloon than they might otherwise have done. Goody valiantly attempts to make polite conversation with the few locals still patronising the saloon, but receives little in the way of response other than stilted, almost hostile questions regarding their purpose in the town. Clearly they will receive little in the way of hospitality here.

They take the hint and excuse themselves to the privacy of their room relatively early on in the night; there’s a relief beyond the mundane comfort of privacy in the sound of the door locking behind them. Only when free of it does it truly sink in just how oppressively all-pervasive was the sense of being _watched_.

“Something isn’t right here,” Billy says. He’s leaning against the wall by the window all watchful stillness, just far back enough to observe the comings and goings of the street without drawing attention himself. He isn’t wrong. It’s impossible to tell if this tension is a thing they’ve somehow unwittingly provoked, or something they’ve merely stumbled upon, but neither possibility promises a restful night.

Goody steps up behind him, floorboards creaking under his feet as he slides his arms familiarly around Billy’s waist. “We’ll be gone by dawn,” he murmurs, skin warm and soft under his lips as he presses a kiss to the side of Billy’s neck. “Don’t fret, darlin’. Whatever’s happening here, we needn’t be a part of it.”

The low noise Billy makes is unconvinced. But it takes little more affectionate persuasion for him to let himself be distracted, turning in Goody’s arms and ignoring the view from the window in favour of a lingering kiss. Every town they stop off in seems to have one trouble or another. In the absence of any compelling motivation to the contrary, it’s rare that they do anything other than guard themselves a little more carefully for the duration of their stay. This will be no different. The life they lead touches the places they pass through only lightly.

They check the lock and draw the curtains tight before retiring for the night; Billy hangs his knifebelt over the bedpost, within easy reach. Small precautions, really. Complacency is not a survival trait for anyone who lives a life as rootless as theirs. The years have ingrained wariness into habit, and the impulse to sleep with a weapon close to hand is for from enough to keep them from sleep when they have the comfort of their shared blankets and each other’s arms.

The world is dark and silent still when they rise the next morning, the first pale blush of dawn just barely staining the horizon somewhere beyond the mountains. They pass their key back to a sleepy-eyed hotel clerk with little fuss, and prepare to ride out with the unhurried efficiency of long practice. The town is just showing the first signs of stirring for the coming day as they steer the horses out at an unhurried walk, curtains drawing back and doors beginning to open as the sky grows steadily lighter. Wary eyes follow them, but nothing further than that seems to come of it. Whatever strange tension had found them in San Luis, hopefully they can leave it behind them there.

Their road takes them northward from the edge of the town, seeking out a shallower climb to the pass; on well conditioned and lightly laden horses, they can take routes impassable to most, but even so the approach is a precipitous one. The edge of a mountain range is no place to be incautious. In the absence of any truly pressing time constraint, they needn’t endanger themselves by pressing on harder than necessary.

They make part of the climb to the pass on the first day, setting up camp in the dusky light of sunset by the road that winds slowly up the forested side of the mountain. The ground remains hard and rocky under the coarse grass, but it’s greener here than in the scrubby country that lies behind them, the mountain peaks drawing in clouds and channeling the rainfall to nourish the vegetation. While they may well be doused in the course of traversing the mountains, it’s a small mercy that at least it’s not yet late enough in the year for there to be any danger of the clouds clinging to the peaks dropping snow on them.

Goody busies himself preparing their evening meal over the campfire while Billy sees to the horses, smoke curling gently skyward and the flickering firelight setting the shadows of the trees to dancing. He’s quite absorbed in his task when his attention is caught by Billy straightening abruptly, a hand going to the hilt of one of the knives at his belt; Goody stills, a prickle of unease raising the hairs along the back of his neck.

“What is it?” he murmurs.

Billy frowns, his eyes still fixed on some point off through the trees. “I thought I saw something,” he replies. “A light, further up the mountain...”

“Someone else making camp further up the trail, perhaps,” Goody suggests lightly. He can’t see anything of the sort himself, but his own vision is still dulled from looking toward the campfire; he doesn’t doubt that his partner is better placed to spot any flicker of light or movement off in the growing dimness beneath the trees.

“Perhaps,” Billy responds after a long moment, not sounding wholly satisfied. His gaze lingers on the forest as he comes back over to the campfire.

Goody reaches out to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. “We’ll keep a watch tonight,” he promises softly. Much as he would prefer to spend his night in Billy’s arms wherever possible, they’ve both lived this life long enough to know well the value of wariness.

They eat mostly in companionable quiet; afterwards, Goody rinses out the pot and wipes down their plates as Billy prepares to bed down for the night. Sleepless nights are common enough still for him that it’s no great hardship to take the first watch, his rifle across his lap by the embers of the fire as he listens to the soft rhythm of Billy’s breathing and the noises of the forest. His watch passes without incident. 

The waxing moon is peeking through swaying boughs overhead as he wakes Billy to take his turn, fondness blossoming warmly in his chest for the way Billy leans into his touch all sleepy affection. The blankets are still warm as he takes his place in them. Safe in the knowledge that his partner is keeping a watchful eye, he has no hesitation in settling in to sleep.

Dawn comes late in the shadow of the mountain. The sky is already bright long before the sun kisses the ridgeline, seeing them already well on their way to the pass. The night passing without incident is some measure of reassurance that perhaps their watchfulness was more caution than necessity. In the growing light of morning the fears of the darkness feel very far distant indeed.

As they crest the pass the road drops sharply away from them, revealing a vista of mountainside and hill and plain beyond stretching far into the distance, a patchwork of forest here and grass there. The descent goes more easily than the climb behind them, and they reach the foot of the mountain in good time, leaving them a scant half day’s travel on to the next town awaiting them in the morning.

They keep a watch again that night, but nothing of note occurs. They rise early and ride out with the dawn; the noonday sun is high in the sky when they ride into Trinidad, a coal-mining town of modest population straddling the Santa Fe trail. Down here tucked away in the river valley, the horizon is all hill and mesa, the mountains beyond hidden from sight. It’s a good spot to resupply, and after some small amount of discussion they stable their horses and go their separate ways to more efficiently provision themselves.

No matter how far they may roam, one general store is much like another; few hold much in the way of novelty. It’s a matter of well-worn habit to pick out the supplies they require, to gauge how much will see them comfortably through to their next stop without unduly burdening the horses. Trail fare is undeniably monotonous, but there’s a comfort of sorts in the familiarity of it.

By the time he finishes in the general store, Billy is already waiting for him out on the boardwalk. They split the weight of the supplies between them and make the short walk back to the stables at an unhurried pace. Once they’ve loaded up the horses they’ll have the time to better acquaint themselves with the town, and perhaps take a meal before discussing whether they should spend a night here, or be on their way while there’s still daylight to burn.

He’s turning to leave when Billy grabs his arm, bringing him up short. He opens his mouth, but Billy shakes his head sharply, cutting him off before he can speak. “Listen,” he hisses.

It takes Goody a moment to focus in on the previously-ignored murmur of voices filtering in through the gaps in the wooden siding of the stable, but when he does, ice crawls down his spine. “...and the other one in greys,” someone on the other side of the wall is saying. “Rode into town today.”

“So much for lunch,” Goody says lightly, for all the world as though the bottom hasn’t dropped out of his stomach.

Billy snorts and shakes his head. “Let’s get out of here.”

With a new sense of urgency they retrieve the horses and prepare to ride out, a wary eye always turned toward the door and their hands never straying far from their weapons. The urge to thunder out of town as though all the hounds of hell were on their heels is overwhelming, but it’s a panic instinct which will do them no good. They need to be very careful here. Going off half-cocked will only get them killed.

Billy observes the street outside carefully for a long few minutes before waving Goody forward; he leads the horses out at a walk, hairs prickling along the nape of his neck at the painfully exposed feeling of open air around them. He watches their flank as Billy pads on silent feet to the corner, peering cautiously around for a glimpse of whoever had been asking after them. The horses stir restlessly, tugging at the reins caught tight in Goody’s hand. They can sense their masters’ unease.

Billy leans back sharply into the cover of the stable wall. “Bounty hunters,” he mutters. Goody curses under his breath. 

It’s not that it comes as a surprise, exactly. He’s well aware that Billy has a bounty on his head; after all, easy as it is to forget after all this time, he’d had the intention of collecting on that very prize himself when they met a lifetime ago. That they’re safer far from the reach of the Northern Pacific Railroad Company has been as much an ongoing footnote to their travels over the years as accounting for the trials of the terrain and seasons. It’s no restriction of any note to Goody, who is less likely to find trouble south of Mason and Dixon’s line himself.

The last he’d heard, however, the company had staggered through the early stages of the depression that had crippled the railroad boom, only to ultimately slip into bankruptcy more than a year ago now. He’d rather imagined the bounty would become less of an issue for them after that. Apparently he had misjudged the situation.

They lead the horses for a short distance, mounting up only when they’re out of the line of sight from the stables. It’s nothing less than excruciating, to restrict themselves to an unhurried walk as they join the road leading out of town. But if they haven’t yet been seen it’s better to avoid drawing the attention that leaving at a full gallop would bring. They can spur on the horses and put some distance behind them once they’re out of town; for now, they can only hope not to linger in the memory of the townspeople they pass.

The trail is thick with travellers coming and going from the railheads at Las Animas. They follow the crowd southward at a brisk pace until they’re well out of sight of the town, blending in as best they can. Only when they’re a safe distance away do they break sharply eastward, striking out for the all but abandoned wagon road to Granada. With luck, their pursuers will assume that they are following the trail at least as far as the more easily negotiable route through Raton Pass. And if despite their best efforts they have been followed...well, if nothing else, at least on a quieter trail it will rapidly become obvious.

The sounds of other travellers fall away rapidly as they ride further down the now neglected spur of the trail, leaving them with nothing but the thunder of shod hooves and shrill bird cries from the forested hillside around them. Billy twists in his saddle to scan the road behind them, and curses low and vehement. “Riders behind us!” he calls over the pounding of hooves. 

So it’s to be a chase. Goody groans. Of course luck can never be on their side.

He runs desperately through his memories of looking over the map when they’d planned their route some days ago, searching for any flicker of inspiration, for some quirk of the terrain they might use to their advantage. Nothing comes to mind. They hadn’t intended to come this way; accordingly, they’d paid little attention to this spur of the trail. Unless provenance favours them unexpectedly, the ride ahead will be a long and gruelling one.

The trail sweeps a broad arc under them, following the creek that cuts a path through the rough terrain. The dust they throw up behind them is thick, obscuring the view to their rear; from what glimpses he can catch through the haze, it seems as though perhaps their pursuers have fallen back, out of direct sight. A glimmer of hope stirs in his chest. If they can outpace the riders behind them, a brief window in which to depart the trail unseen is all it will take for them to cut away and be lost in the hills.

His optimism is quickly proven to be unfounded. As they round a rocky outcrop, there’s movement up on the hillside ahead of them, and the air seems to thicken around them as the cold realisation that they haven’t outpaced their pursuers but instead been cut off by them slows time to a series of still images seared into the mind’s eye. The steep, rocky sides of the trail towering over them, impassable. The bare dirt of the road laid out in front of them. The glint of sunlight on gun barrels.

And then the moment of clarity is shattered by the crack of the first gunshot, and all descends into chaos, shouts ringing out above as stray bullets kick up dust all around them. “Ride!” Goody yells, spurring his horse forward as he shoulders his rifle. He can’t spare the attention to check if Billy has listened to him, not when a second’s inattention might be enough for some opportunist to pick them off, but he can hear the familiar report of Billy’s pistol from his right. Neither of them are in a position to steer. They’ll have to trust in their mounts’ herd instinct to bolt together.

Even he, the infamous Angel of Death, is hard-pressed to land an accurate shot from the back of a panicked horse. But needs must; if they stop moving, they die. He compensates as best he can, rising up in his saddle and steadying the swaying barrel of his rifle as every shot at throws up chips of stone and sends their ambushers ducking behind cover. Here and there is a pained yell, a spray of blood, but there’s no telling which shots have truly hit their mark.

A bullet clips his forearm and he hisses sharply between his teeth, the cold, painless shock of impact rapidly overtaken by a searing throb. His hand shakes with it under the weight of the rifle, adding a further element of random chance to which shots find their target and which go wide. He can feel blood trickling down his arm and soaking into his sleeve; he has the fleeting, inane thought that the shirt will be _ruined_ should they make it out of here.

The rifle clicks emptily in his hands and he swears, fumbling blindly for his gunbelt to try to reload. But the worst of the ambush is behind them, ever fewer shots landing close enough to hear the dull thump of them into the dirt as the horses thunder on along the road, and Goody can’t help but feel a surge of desperate hope. 

Billy is still with him, grim-faced but apparently intact, and it will take the bounty hunters those few precious extra minutes to saddle up and resume their pursuit. The sounds of the ambush fall away behind them as they ride hard for the tantalising glimmer of greener, gentler slopes beyond the throat of the canyon. All they need is for the walls of the canyon to fall away, to let them break from the trail, and they can lose themselves in the wild country of the foothills. He spurs his horse on harder, and hopes. 

He spots the tripwire too late.

It’s strung tight between a large rock and a scraggly deadwood tree, the dull colour of the rope almost indistinguishable from the dirt where it sits at just the height to catch a horse right across the knees. He cries out a sharp, wordless yell of warning as he hauls desperately on the reins; his horse shrieks and near throws him, her hooves skidding in the loose dirt and gravel of the road. It’s not enough. Time slows to a horrified crawl as the rope catches on her foreleg and pulls taut. 

He pitches forward, almost weightless for an endless moment as the saddle seems to drop away from under him. The hard-packed dirt rushes up to meet him. There’s the breathless thump of impact and a bright flare of pain, and a sickening snapping sound that seems to echo through his entire body. 

And then there’s nothing but darkness.


	15. I swim for dry land just like you

Goodnight wakes to dust and silence.

The world is hazy and distant somewhere beyond the splitting pain in his skull; he gives a raw croak of a groan and curls in on himself, nausea roiling in the pit of his stomach as his head throbs with every slightest motion. When he tentatively cracks an eyelid, the light pierces like a needle.

With a few choice mumbled curses, he rolls onto his back and stares blearily up at the tattered clouds drifting across the sky, attempting to take stock of his various limbs. Overwhelming every other sensation is his pounding headache, grey flecks swimming dizzyingly in front of his eyes at the provocation of the slightest movement. He touches a hand to his hairline gingerly and winces. His fingers come away bloodied.

The movement also sends a spike of pain lancing up his arm, a sharper counterpoint to the dull ache sunk bone-deep into every part of his body. He squints at it. The sleeve of his coat is torn through with the distinctive entry and exit of a bullet hole at a shallow angle, dark blood soaked into the heavy wool.

It’s enough to unlock a torrent of memory in his fuzzy, pounding skull, the events that had led him to this point abruptly slotting into place. He bolts upright. This immediately proves to be a hideous misjudgement on his part as the pain in his head spikes so violently that he near loses consciousness again, his vision going fuzzy and white noise roaring in his ears. Pressing his forehead into his knees and shutting his eyes tight, he takes in gasping breaths and fights down the urge to vomit.

After an excruciating few moments, the pain starts to ebb. Every part of him wants to lie back down and sleep until the world hurts a little less, but with some difficulty he finds the reserves of determination to slowly struggle to his knees, and take stock of his surroundings. He’s in the canyon still, the cut ends of the rope that had tripped his horse trailing in the dirt of the road. There are a few still bodies here and there, unfamiliar at a glance, and—

Billy isn’t with him.

There are a few long, frozen moments in which the realisation refuses to sink in before panic flares brilliantly in his chest like the burst of a firework, his breath seizing in his lungs. He can see Billy’s horse sprawled out limply in the churned and bloodied dirt just past the tripwire, saddle and pack askew, but of the man himself there’s no sign.

In a heartbeat it’s as though he’s transported back to the dust of the road to El Paso, all sick terror and bloody, trembling hands; a dark void opening up underneath his feet as he’s faced with the sudden reality of what it would do to him to lose Billy. He’ll carry with him to his grave the memory of Billy still and pale against the blankets, and the dread of the inescapable knowledge that he was wholly responsible for whatever came of it.

But even then at least he’d had a clear path ahead of him, his world narrowed to nothing but the animal instinct to find warmth, to find shelter, to find someone more able than he to tend to the wound. And he’d had Billy still warm and real under his hands, fighting to survive at every step; he’d been a mere accessory to Billy’s stubborn determination. He doesn’t have that comfort now. Here and now he’s alone with nothing but the buzzing of flies, and the charnel-house reek of newly slaughtered meat. 

A choking sob rises up in his throat before he can fight it back. He’s never felt so desperately helpless as he does here on his knees in the dust and blood of a battle already lost, without the first idea of how to even begin to pick up the pieces. It might well already be too late. The thought of being truly alone, of having no choice but to find a way to keep living without Billy...it doesn’t bear contemplating. He isn’t strong enough to survive losing the only good thing he has left.

With an effort that shudders through his entire body, he grits his teeth and swallows down another racking sob, nails biting into his palms. If he is to mourn, then he can mourn when he’s sure of it. For now, he needs to think, to regroup. He couldn’t live with the thought that he gave in to despair when there was something, _anything_ he could have done.

He scrubs a hand over his eyes and takes a few deep, steadying breaths. In the absence of a body, there remains a glimmer of hope. He knows better than to underestimate Billy; so long as he’s alive, he won’t give up. The least Goody owes him is to do the same. 

Rationally, he knows it’s likely that there’s still a chance. He’d tried to collect on this very bounty himself, after all, a lifetime ago. And more than anything else, what gives him the strength to swallow down his fear and struggle to his feet is knowing that the notice had specified _wanted alive_. Whoever these men are, they won’t rob themselves of their profits unless given no other choice. He knows that. And so does Billy.

Standing is still more slow and painful a process than rising as far as his knees had been. His ribs creak alarmingly as he straightens, the sharp throb of them almost lost under the rush of sick dizziness as his head pounds all the more fiercely. He staggers and reaches blindly for the rock wall of the canyon to support himself, swearing weakly under his breath as he presses a hand over his eyes. His legs feel weak, scarcely willing to support him. Every part of him aches to give in to the darkness encroaching at the edges of his vision.

Every part, save one.

Swallowing down nausea, he lifts his hand to shield his eyes and squints around the canyon with a newly assessing gaze. The dirt is churned, particularly around the fallen horses; and had that been insufficient evidence to convince him that a struggle had taken place, the bodies scattered around would underscore the point quite neatly. There are three that he can see, all dressed much as he’d expect from the glimpses he’d caught of their pursuers. One, a little further back up the trail than the others, seems to have been shot. As for the other two...well, after all these years, he hardly needs to examine them too closely to recognise Billy’s knifework. One still has an engraved hilt decorating the hollow under his breastbone.

The last has been quite efficiently butchered a scant few feet from where Goody had woken. He stares at the body, at the bootprints trampled into the dirt around it, for a long time. Something in his chest constricts painfully at the sudden crystal clear image of Billy standing over his unconscious body. Protecting him.

He takes a steadying breath and crosses over to the second body, wrenching the knife free with a sickening wet sound. A sluggish trickle of blood spills out after it; he wipes the blade clean on the corpse’s shirt, and tucks the knife into his own belt. Billy will want it back.

Lying close to the last body is his horse. She’s still warm to the touch, neck twisted at an unnatural angle; her glossy hide is already thick with flies. A duller kind of grief for the patient, loyal mount who’d carried him all these years swells to fill the empty space under his fear for Billy. The poor creature deserved a better end than this.

With a sigh, he sets about tugging his saddlebags free, and quickly hunting through them for anything useful. His rifle, of course, he slings over his shoulder, and he replenishes the bandolier at his belt before tucking the rest of the ammo box into a pocket. He takes a full canteen too, and — despite the fact that the mere thought has his stomach on the verge of rebelling — a little food. 

His hat is on the ground nearby, somewhat bent out of shape from the fall. He presses out the dents with his fingers and gingerly settles it onto his head. As he might have suspected, the band rubs uncomfortably against the already-swollen cut at his hairline, but it’s a small price to pay for anything to shield his eyes from the harsh stab of the light.

Everything else he crams back into the saddlebags. He stands with them in hand and looks around, assessing: after a few moments he picks out a rock outcropping as a landmark, and hastily buries the saddlebags under loose scree and gravel beneath it. He can only carry so much, after all, and this will at least save his few possessions from being picked over should any scavengers come upon the aftermath of the fight. He can come back and retrieve them if he’s still alive at the end of the next twenty-four hours.

He stands and staggers over to Billy’s horse, teeth gritted against the spiking pain and dizziness the movement provokes, to repeat the process. If nothing else, there will be more ammo. And it feels a little too much like admitting defeat prematurely to leave Billy’s possessions out in the open after he’d thought to hide his own.

Most of it is pistol ammo, of the wrong calibre for his own weapon, but he finds a box of cartridges which will fit his rifle. Beyond that there’s little which will benefit him at the moment. A pouch of tobacco, a little bottle of oil he devoutly hopes they’ll have the chance to have use of again, and...a slim book wrapped in soft-worn cloth.

Goody unfolds the cloth and stares for a long moment at the volume of Poe therein. He still remembers with utter clarity the nervous flutter in his chest when he’d first handed it to Billy; when he hadn’t seen it in long years since, he hadn’t known what to think other than that perhaps it had been sold on. To find it kept with such care, as though it were something of great import…

He closes his eyes and presses his lips to the faded print of the title, tears spilling down his cheeks afresh. And then, with new determination, he wraps it up once more and replaces it in the saddlebags before standing.

Billy’s saddlebags he puts with his own. His head still aches abominably, and the shallow bullet wound scored into the flesh of his forearm throbs painfully with every incautious movement; for now, he has little choice but to ignore them as best he can. He checks his rifle, squints at the jumble of hoofprints in the dirt, and starts walking.

On his best day he’s hardly a tracker of any skill. But with their quarry captured, the bounty hunters had made no particular effort to cover their trail; on a little used road, the hoof-churned dirt is easy to pick out even to his untrained eye. Someone more experienced might have been able to pick out useful detail — their pace, perhaps, or how many riders to expect — but for his purposes, their direction is all he needs to know. So long as he has a trail to follow, he has a chance.

The steep sides of the canyon drop away into gentler slopes as he continues along at a determined trudge, his various injuries protesting at every step. He sips from the canteen, which does nothing to alleviate his headache, but does if nothing else seem to make it slightly easier to think clearly. The food he’d lifted sits in his pocket, but he doesn’t yet feel bold enough to attempt to eat it. His cracked ribs will not thank him if he vomits.

It’s hard to be sure exactly how much time passed while he was unconscious. He can’t imagine it was long; his horse had still been warm, after all, and the bodies fresh enough to spill blood anew when he’d pulled the knife free. And while his experience is more of bullet wounds and shrapnel, he has an idea that if he’d taken a blow to the skull severe enough to have him unconscious for a time on the order of hours, he certainly wouldn’t be upright and thinking coherently. Most men he’s seen take a blow to the head and not wake up after minutes rather than hours tend not to wake up at all.

He can’t be sure how much of a lead the bounty hunters have over him. Certainly they’ll be drawing further ahead every moment, carrying on at a horse’s pace while he’s left with no choice but to walk. But men and horses alike need rest, and they’ll have no reason to fear pursuit. He knows well enough when he’s been left for dead.

It sends a sharp pang of sorrow through him to think of Billy alone and most probably injured in hostile hands, thinking him dead or worse. Not knowing if any help will be coming, or if he truly is alone in this. Billy is, of course, an eminently capable person, and his strength in the face of adversity is truly admirable. But it’s painful to think of him in such desperate circumstances, and be powerless to in any way help.

With every step his ribs creak and his head throbs, the flesh wound in his arm occasionally reminding sharply of its presence when he moves incautiously. It would be a hard road to walk even if he were in perfect health; while long days spent on horseback make their own demands on the body, to make the same journey on foot is exhausting in an entirely different way. He’s all too aware that he isn’t equipped for this. His boots, while well worn and long since broken in, were made for riding. They’ll start to chafe soon.

All told it’s an uncomfortable reminder of the war; of long days and weeks trudging from one battlefield to the next when fortune no longer afforded them the luxury of mounts. He’s made longer walks in worse states, he’s sure, after the angel glow spared him at Shiloh, or at the end of it all when regular rations were a distant memory. But he’d been younger then, hadn’t he. More resilient. Not yet stripped of the illusions that made something as vast and impersonal as a war seem worth fighting.

He doesn’t have much fight left in him. But for Billy, he’ll gladly spend everything that’s left.

The terrain grows easier as the creek winds on and broadens; the ground, mercifully, stays all soft dirt which holds the impression of horseshoes well. Eventually the creek spills out into a small lake, where he pauses to refill his canteen, and wash the dried blood from his hands and face. The cold water seems to ease his pounding headache just a little. He drinks from his cupped hands, resettles his hat on his head, and carries on.

From the confluence at the lake, the trail turns northward, following another winding little creek upstream; toward a cut in between two mesas, if he remembers the maps correctly. The tracks continue along the trail without wavering. It’s a relief to have one element of uncertainty fewer to trouble his aching head. He doesn’t know that his meager tracking skills would have been equal to the task of following his quarry across open country.

The day wears on as he trudges doggedly along, the golden light of growing evening casting long shadows across the trail. The green fades from the land again as the trail parts ways from the creek and wanders up into hill country, all rock and dust and scrub. The drier ground doesn’t hold tracks as well; though it remains within his limited skill to follow the trail, he has to look more carefully to pick the hoofprints out from the shifting dust.

It preys on his mind, as the shadows lengthen and the horizon flares fiery shades of sunset, the thought that he might well lose his way should the ground grow yet more unyielding. He knows with cold certainty that if he doesn’t come upon their camp by dawn, he’ll have let his chance slip through his fingers. Given a night’s rest mounted men will easily outpace him. Tonight will be his only chance to catch up to them.

Of course, his presence or absence might make little difference to the ultimate outcome. The long years they’ve spent together have only strengthened his conviction that it is more fruitful by far to put his faith in Billy than in himself. He doesn’t doubt that Billy will be patiently awaiting the chance to slip free and teach his captors an object lesson in the error of their ways. Billy was surviving worse circumstances than these quite capably long before they ever met; regardless of Goodnight’s presence or absence, he will find a way to survive this.

But while Billy will be just fine alone, he doesn’t feel so confident in saying the same for himself. His life before Billy is not a thing he likes to dwell on, not when every weak moment and every nightmare threaten to tip him back into that place of empty desperation for an end to it one way or the other. That he needs Billy is a simple fact of life.

He doesn’t know how they would find one another. That they might be parted like this had never been serious enough a consideration before now to merit a contingency plan. They had always assumed that even under the worst of circumstances they would stand together, fight together, face whatever came of it together. Die together if need be. 

It’s premature to be giving thought to how he might find Billy again if he loses the trail. He knows this. But he can’t help dwelling upon it. Even if they should both survive this ordeal, they’ll be parted by long miles, with no plan for where to regroup. Where would he go, in the hope of finding Billy — back to Trinidad? How long could he wait? Could he be sure that Billy would follow the same logic?

Billy might think him dead, for all he knows. Anything might have happened after he lost consciousness. Over the years they’ve been partners, he’s learned a thousand times over that there is seemingly no provocation great enough to cause Billy to give up on him; he truly believes that Billy would keep searching. But he knows too that Billy is a singularly practical creature. If he truly believed Goodnight dead, he would grieve, but he would find a way to carry on.

The last of the light is fading from the sky, wreathing the ground ahead of him in shadow. With a sigh, he eases himself gingerly down to sit on a large rock by the side of the trail, and squints thoughtfully up at the distant glimmer of the first stars. The tracks have followed the road without deviation thus far; it would be reasonable to assume that they will continue to do so. But should they finally diverge, he could easily miss it in the darkness. He might walk miles in the wrong direction before dawn.

It’s a blessing at least that the sky is clear. The moon, a fat waxing gibbous when last he took note of it, will be rising soon; it should provide light enough to see by. Until it crests the hills, he can take advantage of the forced pause for a desperately needed rest.

He feels little desire for food, nausea still lingering from the head wound and his stomach at the stage of emptiness without urgency where it seems to have accepted hunger simply as the way of things, but he recognises that his body requires sustenance. His stomach constricts painfully around nothing as he forces himself to swallow down a little of the dried meat and stale bread he’d taken from their saddlebags. He soldiers on regardless, washing it down with gulps from the canteen.

After the food is gone, he turns his attention with some reluctance to assessing the state of his various injuries. Every inch of him aches. His feet, chafed and beginning to blister after the long trek, overpower even the dull pain of his ribs; he doesn’t dare remove his boots to better inspect the damage for fear that he won’t be able to pull them on again. The dizzying throb of his headache too is apparently something he’ll just have to live with. There’s nothing he can usefully do for it here.

He does take the time to cautiously shrug off his coat, a shiver running over his skin at having a layer fewer between it and the rapidly cooling evening air, and roll up his shirtsleeve to examine the shallow furrow carved into his forearm. The fabric is stiff with dried blood, crusted to the wound; he winces as he tugs it free, tearing the wound open anew at the edge. A fresh pulse of blood seeps from the wound and trickles down his arm to drip into the dirt.

Gritting his teeth, he flexes his fingers cautiously. It stings abominably, setting his hand to trembling, but his fingers move freely. The damage appears to be superficial. A little of Señora Garcia’s mysterious salve would have been useful to have, but in its absence, he settles for rinsing the wound off with water from the canteen. He sacrifices his cravat to bind it up, and rolls his sleeve back down.

There seems to be little further he can usefully do. He slides down to sit on the ground, setting his back against the rock, and closes his eyes.

He dozes fitfully for a while, never deeply or for long enough to be truly restful; what snatches of sleep he does manage are haunted by formless nightmares. All told it probably does him little more good than simply sitting and waiting would have done, but if nothing else, it spares him the necessity of thinking. If he lets himself think, his fears might well get the better of him.

At last the moon rises, illuminating the landscape, and he stirs himself to rise. He’s stiff and cold and aching, his injuries protesting every movement, but his pains are of little import. He squints at the road to reassure himself that there is light enough to pick out the tracks by, and starts walking.

The trail is a surreal place bathed in nothing but moonlight; it’s eerily beautiful in its way, even if he’s poorly placed to appreciate it through his sickening worry and pounding headache. If he were to think, perhaps he could call to mind another time that he’d carried on after nightfall rather than pitching camp and starting a fire, but there’s a newness to it regardless. Certainly it’s been a very long time.

The emptiness of the night sky and the silent wilderness stretching out all around him seem only to magnify the fears and doubts that have dogged his heels since he woke in the canyon, giving a power to them which they’d lacked in daylight. He’s so small a thing in this vast darkness. It seems absurd to think that he could be so fortunate as to find Billy again.

It stirs something sick and shameful in his chest, the thought that he let Billy be taken when there was still life left in him. Rationally, of course, he knows that having been knocked senseless by a blow to the head is hardly evidence of any weakness of character. He’s lucky not to have died in the fall, neck snapped like his poor horse’s or skull cracked open like an eggshell. He’s luckier still to only have cracked a few ribs, and not to have broken a leg or anything else that would have left him stranded helplessly back in the canyon. 

That there is still hope at all is more than he could have asked for. If his demons are determined to whisper that he failed by Billy by not being there to stand and fight beside him, if nothing else he can be sure not to fail a second time. He will not indulge himself in despairing while there is anything left that he could have done.

In the dim light and dry ground, he very nearly misses the place where the tracks part ways from the road. He stares at them for an endless, disbelieving moment before dropping to his knees in the dirt. Close to, there’s no mistaking it. They turned from the trail here, out toward the scrub-covered hills.

It’s slower going, carefully following the tracks by moonlight up into the hills. More than once comes a heart-stopping moment in which he’s sure he’s lost them, but each time he picks up the trail again; the prints are better sheltered from the wind, here amid the brush, than they had been on the road. The embers of hope flare in his chest. He has to be close. He _has_ to be. 

He crests a hill and raises a hand to shade his eyes, scanning the landscape, and grins.

Ahead, there is firelight.


	16. time is like a blanket on my face

The firelight ahead is a beacon in the darkness, lighting the embers of a dreadful, smouldering hope in the ash of Goodnight’s heart.

Drawn in like a moth to a flame, he keeps his gaze fixed on that tantalising flicker of light as he makes his slow, painful way through the brush. This has to be it. It _has_ to be. In all the long, aching miles he’s walked, he hasn’t seen the faintest hint of another set of tracks on the road. Surely this can’t be anything other than what he’s looking for.

With every step his many wounds remind of their presence; his head pounding, his broken ribs twinging, the bullet furrow in his arm throbbing hotly at every incautious movement. After the punishing walk, his legs ache from the soles of his feet all the way to the small of his back. But when he has his goal so close that he can all but taste it, his pains are of little import. They’re close to the end now. Either he can force his weary limbs to one last burst of effort and do what needs to be done, or…

Well, if he can’t, his injuries won’t matter one way or the other.

As he draws closer to the camp, he slows his pace yet further, wary of alerting any lookouts who may have been left on watch by pressing on incautiously. The land here is wrinkled like a carelessly dropped cloth, all furrowed little hills and flood-scoured rock; while this makes it easier to creep up unseen, his heart is in his throat every time he crests another rise, anticipating some unexpected foe to loom out of the darkness. The last slow crawl to the camp seems to last near as long as the walk that went before it.

At long last he comes to the top of a rocky ridge, and the bright flare of direct firelight stabs at his eyes. He winces and raises a hand to shield them on reflex. After a moment, logical thought catches up with the situation, and it occurs to him that it would be a pity to render himself light-blind so carelessly after long hours of letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. Slipping his hat from his head, he blocks the bright circle of firelight with it, and squints assessingly at the shadows beyond the dim periphery of the camp.

He almost misses the man left on watch at first; he’s facing the wrong way, toward the firelight, the unbroken dun colour of the back of his coat providing a startlingly effective camouflage against the dust and rock. It’s a flicker of movement which draws Goodnight’s gaze as the man turns his head. He frowns, briefly confused. Why post a lookout at all if he’s to pay so little attention to the surroundings?

And then he follows the man’s gaze, and realisation catches him like a punch to the stomach.

 _Billy_.

His heart pounds in his chest as he desperately drinks in the sight of his partner, bound and bruised but breathing still. Billy looks— actually rather bored with the situation, in all honesty, despite the dried blood on the side of his face. His posture is relaxed as he watches the lookout with the patient calm of a predator waiting for the herd to leave the weakest of their number vulnerable for even a moment. An exhausted huff of a laugh escapes Goody for the sight of him, bloodied but utterly unbowed. He’d expect no less of the man he loves.

A strange kind of satisfaction curls the corner of his lips into a grim smile as he notes that Billy’s hair is still pinned up; his captors have, as one would, neglected to consider the hairpin when stripping him of his weapons. An oversight they would surely have been made to regret, given time and an opportunity. A man who didn’t know any better might unthinkingly dismiss it as decorative, but Goody knows well what that unassuming little piece of metal is capable of in his partner’s clever hands.

Relief bubbling up almost hysterically in his chest, Goodnight turns his attention to the rest of the camp. He can see no lookouts waiting in the dim fringes outside the firelight, save the one watching Billy. The remaining half dozen men are slumbering around the fire. Of course, thinking themselves free from pursuit, their priority would be simply to secure their captive. While their thoughtlessness may have served him well in getting close to the camp, it will be impossible to free Billy unmarked; not with the lookout watching. Silencing the lookout must be his first priority.

If they’re to have a chance, this will need to be done quietly.

His fingers curl hesitantly around the hilt of the knife tucked into his belt, something cold tightening in his chest. He can’t— he hasn’t ever killed a man like that before, close enough to feel the spray of blood and hear the last rattle of his breath. Even when he had the stomach for it, a lifetime ago, it had always been the impersonal distance of a bullet away. With good cover and a rifle in his hands, most of the time he hadn’t even been close enough to make out their faces. These days he scarcely even has the nerve for that.

Much as his heart may quail at the thought though, he can’t see another way. A gunshot will rouse the whole camp. They’re outnumbered: if he can’t free Billy’s hands before the rest of the bounty hunters wake, that will be the end of it.

If he were alone, he would freeze. He knows it for the truth with a strange, impersonal clarity; that if there were nothing more than his own life at stake, he wouldn’t have the strength to go through with what needed to be done. But here and now nothing is more important than the simple fact that for a rare moment, Billy needs him. For Billy he’ll steel his resolve and do what he must, no matter how sick and shamed the thought of blood on his hands makes him feel.

He cups his hands around his mouth and hoots like an owl. The lookout casts a glance in the general direction of the sound but takes little interest, neglecting to scan the shadows with any real intent. Billy, on the other hand, straightens immediately, his head snapping up to stare into the scrub beyond the firelight. Goody’s heart sings with hope. There’s no way he can communicate his plan — such as it is — to Billy. Not without betraying his presence. But it bolsters his strength beyond measure to know simply that they are in this together, as they always should be. Billy is waiting for him. He’ll be ready.

With painstaking caution he inches his way around the edges of the camp, hairs prickling at the back of his neck for every crunch of dirt and rustle of vegetation. He’s so achingly close, mere yards separating him from Billy; it would be a cruel twist of fate to err now, after coming so far. But the lookout pays the sounds no more mind than he does the breeze whispering in the scrub, gaze dull and incurious when it drifts away from Billy. Heartbeat pounding in his ears, slowly Goodnight makes his way to the knot of brush behind the lookout’s undefended back.

His hands are shaking as he fumbles the knife out of his belt and creeps forward, the dizzy rush of adrenaline prickling over his skin overruling even the ache of his many injuries. Billy’s gaze meets his over the lookout’s shoulder; a tumult of emotions rush over his face in the moment before he schools his expression. Goody’s fingers tighten convulsively around the knife, nausea roiling in the pit of his stomach at the thought of what he’s about to do.

Billy is looking at him, dark eyes wide and hopeful.

He can’t hesitate.

Swallowing hard and pushing aside his doubts, he surges forward. Exhausted and aching, it’s hardly a graceful motion, but it doesn’t have to be. Not against an unsuspecting opponent with their back turned. He grabs the lookout by the shirt collar and yanks him back, even as his other hand comes up to draw the knife across the man’s throat, quickly and brutally cutting short his strangled sound of surprise before it can truly take form. A hot gush of blood spills over his hand; he jerks back, letting the body fall to the ground with a heavy thump.

For a long moment he can do nothing but stare, frozen in place by the weight of what he’s done. The blood is hot and thick on his hands, coating his skin and soaking into his sleeve as he watches the lookout give a last gurgling breath and bleed out into the dirt, and—

And Billy is saying his name.

He looks up and meets Billy’s calm, unwavering gaze. It’s grounding, calling his scattered thoughts back to the practicalities of what needs to be done; he shakes himself out of his reverie and takes the short few steps to Billy’s side, dropping to his knees in the dirt beside him. He leaves bloody smears behind on the soft skin of Billy’s wrists as he cuts through the rope bonds.

But before the image can sear itself into his mind’s eye, Billy is already turning and catching him hard in a tight embrace. His ribs protest sharply, but he couldn’t possibly care any less for their opinion of the matter. He drops the knife carelessly to the dirt and returns the embrace desperately, burying his face in the crook of Billy’s neck and breathing in the familiar scent of him, warm and whole and alive in his arms.

“I knew you’d come,” Billy whispers almost inaudibly, and something light and breathless rushes through Goody so powerfully that he feels dizzy with it. His throat is too tight for any attempt at a reply. Instead he holds Billy and little closer and lays a tender kiss against the warm skin under his lips, and hopes that Billy understands what he can’t find the words to say.

After far too short a time, Billy sighs softly and pulls away; Goody lets him go, albeit reluctantly. Much as he’d love nothing more than to hold Billy in his arms and not let go until the terror of so very nearly having lost him yet again finally fades, they can’t stay where they are indefinitely. He bites back a pained groan as he rises gracelessly to his feet, his injuries asserting themselves anew. Billy retrieves the knife from the ground before rising rather more fluidly. His face is unreadable as he turns to consider the slumbering camp.

“We need to go,” Goody mutters awkwardly after a moment’s stillness. Billy nods, but his gaze doesn’t turn away from the sleeping bounty hunters. His eyes are calculating. Something cold stirs uneasily in Goodnight’s chest, raising hairs along the back of his neck.

Billy meets his gaze for a long moment before lowering his eyes. “...horses,” he says quietly, after a pause. “We’ll need to take horses. We won’t get far without them.” 

Goodnight swallows hard and nods his agreement, struck by the sense of negotiating a narrow ledge over some yawning chasm in everything they aren’t saying. He wants nothing more now than to put this place far behind him; to find somewhere safe to make camp and to sleep away all his pains in Billy’s arms, where he belongs. The sooner they’re back on the road, the better. Things will get very messy if someone wakes up before they’ve left.

Billy leads the way around to where the horses are tied up, both of them taking great pains to move as silently as possible. The horses stir and nicker uneasily at having strangers moving around them, but mercifully raise no great fuss. Goody quickly looks them over, assessing which mounts will best suit their needs. Of course, they could quite easily sell the horses on and purchase new mounts at the next town of any size, but it would be foolish not to choose the horses which will fetch them the best price.

While Goody’s attention is on the horses, Billy has made purposefully for a particular set of saddlebags; by the time Goody turns around, he’s buckling his knifebelt back onto its rightful place around his hips. Something in his body language seems to relax as he settles it there. Goody can certainly understand. After long years with a familiar gunbelt a constant weight, to be suddenly bereft of it feels uncomfortably akin to being naked.

Billy’s fingers curl slowly around the gun at his hip. Goodnight finds himself holding his breath, something strange and dark and wild shivering in the air between them as Billy lifts his chin and says with flat, unapologetic certainty, “We’ll sleep easier knowing they aren’t at our backs.”

He isn’t wrong. Even if some weak and quailing part of Goodnight baulks at the thought, the hard truth of the matter is, he isn’t wrong. Billy has always been more able to look an ugly truth in the face unflinching than he. But while normally he would have no hesitation in trusting Billy’s judgement of what must be done and where the line lies...here and now, with fresh blood tacky on his hands, he doesn’t know that he has the stomach for any more death tonight.

“They’re asleep,” he protests weakly.

There’s something almost like sadness in Billy’s eyes as he steps up and cups a gentle hand around Goodnight’s cheek, his gaze searching. “They won’t sleep forever,” he says softly. “Look at us, Goody. We can’t win a fair fight right now. Not like this.”

“Billy—”

“ _They don’t need you alive,_ ” Billy snaps, a fierce light in his eyes, and all at once, Goodnight understands. Lord, he doesn’t know what he ever did to earn such devotion. He draws a breath, but before he can say anything, Billy is continuing with implacable determination. “You don’t have to be part of it, but it needs to be done.”

Billy kisses him, all deliberate, lingering tenderness, before turning away and walking back toward the campfire. Goodnight can’t bring himself to watch him go, a new kind of shame twisting unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach as he stares unseeing at the moonlight-dappled dirt.

He curses, slips his rifle down from where it’s slung over his shoulder, and follows.

Afterwards, the scent of spent gunpowder hanging heavy in the cool night air, Goody goes through the motions of tying the spare horses together into a makeshift pack train in a numb kind of trance. Back by the campfire, Billy is methodically searching the bodies for anything of value. Goody knows that it’s only practical, ghoulish as it may seem — lord knows he would have thought nothing of scavenging a warmer jacket or a more intact pair of boots from the fallen back in wartime — but he hasn’t the stomach to assist.

It takes them little time to be ready to move out. The horses are uneasy, shying away when approached, but the lead animals are brought under control easily enough once mounted. The others will follow. Herd instinct is a remarkable thing.

They ride in silence, picking their way carefully through the rough terrain between the camp and the road. Once they reach the road, they’re able to pick up the pace a little; Goody steers them southward, back toward the canyon where he’d left their gear what feels like an eternity ago. The moon is still high overhead, lighting their way. How strange it is to think that not even a day ago they’d been curled together in their blankets by the embers of a campfire just north of Trinidad, peacefully unaware of what was awaiting them there.

By the time they elect to stop for the night some miles short of reaching the canyon, Goody is so bone tired he’s nodding in his saddle. They ride back out of sight of the road and tie the horses up by a sheltered hollow overlooking a dry wash. Food would probably serve them well, but neither of them has the patience to be trying to light a fire or cook. They take blankets at random from the packs of their horses and combine them into a pile tucked back into the hollow. To Goody’s tired eyes it looks a little like heaven.

Billy hesitates, just for a moment, as he kneels to settle into the blankets. Goody reaches out for him before either of them can overthink it, and reels him in close. He’s too exhausted to dwell on anything that’s happened. In this moment, all he wants is Billy in his arms, warm and solid and _safe_ against him. Billy is still for a long few heartbeats before relaxing into it.

“I love you,” Billy says softly, low and deliberate like a man imparting some precious secret. Perhaps he is.

Goody curls his fingers into Billy’s hair and kisses him like a promise. “I love you too, mon amour,” he murmurs against his lips. No matter what else he may doubt, he’s never doubted that. So long as he has this, the tender affection in Billy’s touch and the reassuring warmth of his closeness, he has everything he needs.

He lays his head on Billy’s chest, and sleeps the sleep of the dead.

It’s surely a mercy only of how utterly exhausted he is that he doesn’t dream. The next thing he knows is the shift of the blankets and the wash of cooler air as he’s roused from the depths of unconsciousness by Billy pulling away. He rolls over and buries his face in the newly-vacated space beside him with a groan. Every inch of him hurts, from his throbbing head all the way down to his swollen and aching feet. The morning light stabs into his skull like a mining pick when he cracks an eyelid open to squint up at Billy.

Billy glances over from where he’s standing by one of the horses, and holds up a canteen by way of explanation. Now that he comes to have it pointed out, Goody realises all of a sudden just how unpleasantly dry and scratchy his throat feels; he extends a hopeful hand, shifting to prop himself up on an elbow. Billy shakes his head fondly and crosses back over to the blankets, handing the canteen to Goody as he settles down to sit.

The water is cool and sweet as it slides down his parched throat, seeming to ease his headache just a little as he drinks. When he’s had his fill he sets the canteen down and, moving slowly and cautiously, eases himself into a sitting position. His ribs creak warningly with the motion; he winces, pressing a hand to them. When he looks up, Billy is eyeing him with some concern.

“...perhaps we should tend to our injuries before moving on,” Goody offers weakly. Not that he’s the only one bearing fresh hurts. The wound on the side of Billy’s face has swollen to an ugly purple-black overnight, crusted with dried blood. Experience teaches that the days following are always worse than the first, and regrettably that time is yet ahead of them. It seems absurd to think that their hurts aren’t even twenty-four hours old. The past day has lasted an eternity.

If there is one mercy in all of this, it’s that in the sudden absence of any pursuit, they have no great need to press on with undue haste. They have time to light the fire they’d neglected to lay last night, to hunt through their spoils for all the equipment and provisions needed for a good meal. Goody tends to the pot bubbling over the fire as Billy sorts through the various saddlebags again, this time looking for anything which might aid them in caring for their injuries.

Still faintly nauseous from the head wound, Goody struggles to summon much enthusiasm for the concept of food. But a hot meal in the light of morning does much to bolster his spirits, chasing away the doubts and fears of the dark. Almost as much as the simple fact of eating it with Billy beside him, pressed together from shoulder to knee as they concentrate on their meals in diligent silence.

Afterwards, they sit by the fire and tend to each other’s wounds with gentle hands. There are cruel welts around Billy’s wrists from where his hands had been roughly bound, and the bruising on the side of his face turns out to be only one point in a constellation of mottled blues and blacks extending down his flank as far as his hip. The sight has a useless, frustrated anger flaring hotly in Goody’s chest. But careful probing confirms that nothing is broken. There’s little to be done other than leaving them to heal in their own time.

Once satisfied, he takes his own turn, stripping to the waist to allow Billy to look him over. The bruising over his broken ribs is livid in the light of day, blooming over his skin like spilled ink; he suffers through Billy’s careful examination with grimaces and muttered curses. The bullet wound in his arm, at least, there’s something to done for. He’d only been able to do so much to care for it, one-handed in the dark. The bandage Billy wraps over the still-bleeding furrow is a much neater affair than his own attempt.

With that taken care of there’s little reason not to press on. And yet, they find themselves lingering by the crackling fire, their wounds still bared to the warm late morning air. In light of all that they’ve been through, the world owes them a moment of peace.

Goodnight finds himself examining his hands, his head bowed as he turns them over in his lap. They don’t look any different than they had yesterday. The blood has already been washed from his palms and cleaned out from under his fingernails. And yet he swears the scent clings to them still, lingering maddeningly just at the very edge of what the senses can detect.

Billy’s hand curls around his.

“Don’t dwell on it,” he says softly, his voice steady and his touch unbearably gentle. It’s not the first time he’s said those words, and now as then, Goodnight desperately envies him the way he can say it as though it’s so simple a thing. He’s always envied Billy his self-assurance. It feels so alien a thing, to know how to let go of guilt and leave it in the past where it belongs. To live without the insidious whispers of doubt.

“I never wanted to come back to this,” Goodnight says, his voice cracking a little as his fingers tighten around Billy’s. He’s fired his rifle in the heat of a skirmish since, in the chaos of dust and gunfire where victory is as much a matter of luck and timing as anything else, and not regretted it overmuch. But this feels different. To look at an enemy unaware of your presence and make the cold, rational decision that their death would be expedient...it feels too close being the man he swore he’d left behind him after the war.

When he looks up, Billy is watching him with that same strange sorrow from back at the camp.

“It was at my suggestion,” Billy says. “Do you think less of me for it?” His tone is mild, but there’s a trace of something uncertain in his eyes, as though some part of him fears to hear the answer for which he’s asking.

Goodnight stares in shock for a long moment before he finds his voice. “Of course not!”

Billy gives a soft breath of a sigh, curling a hand around the back of Goodnight’s neck and leaning in to press a tender kiss to his forehead. “Then don’t think less of yourself,” he replies. Goody wishes desperately that he could share in Billy’s certainty; that he could truly believe that it could be so simple.

He closes his eyes and leans his forehead in against Billy’s shoulder, taking comfort in their closeness. His conscience is a cruel and wounded thing, he knows; all viciousness as it lashes out like an animal in a trap. There is little he can do to calm it. But one more sin to pay penance for makes little more difference now than a single drop of rain does to a storm.

He has Billy beside him, the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart the closest to heaven that Goody knows he’ll ever come. He belongs to Billy, body and soul. Even the darkest parts of him. To keep this, to keep Billy safe and whole, he’ll revisit every sin he’s ever wrought a thousandfold.

After all, there is no sweeter sin than love to be damned for.


	17. as the water grinds the stone

It is not the way of the world that a few reassurances, however tender and sincere, can quiet the whispers of guilt for more than a few grateful moments. The weight of what happened that night hangs between them for a long time, mapped out in negative space by their silences, by the things they choose not to say. Goody’s nightmares haunt him with renewed dedication for a time. Here and there, Billy stays his hand where a harsh word might otherwise have escalated to violence. 

But any wound which is survivable scars over in time. The legacy of old wounds remains, but they can only bleed afresh for so long before their lingering ache becomes simply another thread in the fabric of daily life. They leave the Colorado hill country and what happened there behind them, the freshness of the memories fading from their minds as the bruises fade from their skin.

He still wakes in a terrified haze sometimes, blindly reaching out to find Billy’s warm presence where his fears insist there should be nothing but cold dirt. He still catches the edges of that uncertain look in Billy’s eyes sometimes when the quiet draws out a little too long. But life carries on for them much as it always has, and eventually, Goodnight almost forgets that he’s riding a dead man’s horse.

The world cares little for whatever may have changed for them; the seasons still turn as they always have, and time carries them on at its own steady pace. Every passing day wears the routine they’ve made for themselves a little deeper into familiar, unthinking habit, like a river carves a path even through unyielding rock.

And yet for all the newness has long since worn from it, Goodnight never feels any less fortunate to wake in the drowsy warmth of their shared blankets of a morning, their limbs comfortably entangled by the embers of last night’s fire. After everything they’ve suffered to be here, after coming so close to losing it or to never having it at all, he remains desperately grateful for every moment they have together. Even simply to go through the mundane ritual of rising and breaking camp together is more than he once thought he’d ever have again.

The simplest pleasures in life are often the greatest: to wake slowly in the pale blush of dawn after a night of sleep mercifully unbroken by nightmares, and doze for a time in hazy peace, lulled by the whisper of Billy’s breath against his skin. To move around each other all soft, thoughtless familiarity as they begin to stir, rousing themselves from their blankets and preparing to be on their way again with the unhurried ease of long practice.

It’s been more than five years now. Five years since he’d so nearly lost Billy to a gunshot wound on the road to El Paso; five years since instead they’d found something together that he’d scarcely dared let himself hope for. Every time he thinks on it, it staggers him anew, that he could truly be so fortunate as to have been given this.

It’s that thought which sticks in Goody’s mind as he grudgingly rises from the bedroll and wanders over to the creek they’re camped out by. It’s a fine spring morning, cool and clear with pale sunlight dappling the ground and a hint of rain to come carried on the breeze sighing in the trees. He crouches by the creek and drinks from cupped hands before settling in to wash off; the cold water does far more to wake him than the mere act of rising from his blankets, brushing the last of the cobwebs from the corners of his drowsy mind.

He straightens and turns, water still beading on his skin, to see Billy pausing in the act of packing up their bedding to stifle a yawn. A wave of helpless, aching fondness sweeps through him, bringing a soft smile to his lips. How fortunate he is, to be able to call this singular man his.

Still buoyed by the warm contentment of a pleasant morning, he’s smiling absently to himself as he crosses over to the fire, crouching to stir the embers and coax the flames back to life with twigs and tinder. Billy finishes strapping their bedrolls to their saddles behind him as he’s laying out the cookware to begin preparing breakfast for them, and heads over to the creek himself; he squeezes Goody’s shoulder as he passes, all easy, unthinking affection.

Goodnight cooks as Billy takes his turn washing off in the creek; afterwards they eat in companionable quiet, drying off by the warmth of the campfire. They’re in no great hurry, after all. The sky and the scent of the breeze promise fair enough weather, and a quick glance over their maps confirms that the next town on the road is scarcely a half day’s ride ahead of them. With luck their day will consist of little more than a short, easy ride to a friendly saloon.

The land which unfolds ahead of them as they follow the creek down out of the hills is vibrant with the first blush of spring, green leaves unfurling on the trees and shy flower buds just barely poking out from the grass. With all day to make a half day’s ride, they let the horses set their own unhurried pace, intervening with a tug of reins only when one or the other is distracted by the fresh shoots of grass flourishing temptingly along the roadside.

They talk as they ride, the sky wide and blue above them and the wind sighing in the trees; reminiscences from before and after they met alike, thoughts on where they might go next and what they might do. Here and there are pieces of old stories, old songs. Even in the most mundane of it there are precious glimpses of an honesty they to show no-one else any more.

Noon comes and goes, but the sun is high in the sky still when they crest a low hill to find themselves overlooking the town of Cedar Ridge. From this vantage point it’s easy to pick out the clear-cut patches around the town where the eponymous trees have been felled to feed the lumber trade.

“How’s that trigger finger feeling, amour?” Goody asks, casting Billy a playful sideways grin. Where there is dirty and dangerous manual labour to be done, after all, there are invariably dirty and dangerous men looking to blow off a little steam.

“Ready and willing,” Billy replies, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

Goody can’t help but leer a little. “Hold that thought.”

They draw stares as they ride into town at a jingling trot, idling locals watching them with undisguised curiosity from the boardwalk as they tie up their horses in front of the saloon. At a glance, the mood is a little less rowdy than in the cattle towns and mining camps where they usually ply their trade, but that shouldn’t be any great hindrance to them. They’re well practiced now in drumming up interest in a contest where little previously existed. A few choice boasts in the right places should rile up any men who fancy themselves gunslingers.

Their double act is well polished; Billy posting up somewhere conspicuous to exude brooding mystery, while Goody circulates, conspiratorially sharing rumours and flattering egos. It takes little encouragement to steer the younger men into telling no doubt highly exaggerated tales of their own prowess.

And then, when moment is right, all it takes is a challenge.

If there is any element of uncertainty in this, it lies only in setting the wheels rolling. Some crowds are more receptive than others, and there have been occasions on which despite their best efforts, one town or another was not of a mind to have a contest stirred. Once the spark has hit the powder, however, they are wholly within the domain of skill; and in all the years they’ve been inciting these little contests, he’s never seen Billy bested.

There are, of course, always sore losers after such a contest. But on most occasions even the most hotheaded and foolhardy are sufficiently cowed by the combination of Goodnight’s reputation and Billy’s obvious skill not to make an issue of it. This occasion is no different, and instead they slink off to nurse their wounded pride in peace. The rest of the audience, meanwhile, are more than happy to adjourn to the saloon.

They take their seats and are quickly furnished with drinks by generous locals, none of whom seem overly put out at having seen the cockier of their neighbours soundly beaten. Goodnight sips from his glass and settles into a more genial variation on his persona in anticipation of holding court; ready to spin whatever tales will hold their audience’s attention well enough to see them drinking for free for the rest of the night.

“Like my daddy used to say…” Goodnight begins grandly; to a quiet snort from Billy, who is fully aware that every part of that sentence is a lie, and that whatever follows it is likely to be equally so.

He doesn’t react. Not outwardly, in any case. But a quiet warmth blooms behind his breastbone for it, for the sure and certain knowledge that one person, at least, knows that there’s more to him than this. It’s a genuine delight to know that someone is in on the joke, that Billy will note every place where his tales of their adventures part ways from the mundane reality. He can take some pleasure in this again, now that he has someone with whom he can shed his persona and show what lies beneath without fear.

It’s strange how much more easily this mask sits, now that they’re so far past the time when it was all that he had.

The day wears on and the saloon grows busier, the background hubbub of chatter growing louder as people come and go in the background. Goodnight recognises the lull coming and chooses to round off his stories with a tale of how he and Billy first met, embellished to the point of being only a hair removed from pure fiction.

“I know you know that’s not how it happened,” Billy says conversationally as the crowd tatters at the edges and drifts away, tempted by the enterprising soul warming up at the battered upright piano.

Goody grins at him. “Ah, but isn’t my version a better story?”

Relieved of the burden of being the centre of attention, they relocate to an out of the way table to observe the night’s festivities in companionable quiet. The pianist has been joined by a young man with a fiddle; from the ease with which they accompany one another, it would seem that this is no uncommon occurrence. The patrons of the saloon clap and stomp along to the rhythm of the music, singing disjointed snatches of lyrics here and there. A few even rise to dance.

In the dimness of their out of the way corner, he feels Billy’s knee nudge up against his under the table, and smiles.

They indulge a little further in the offerings of the saloon before retiring to a room upstairs. The sounds of conversation fade as the door closes behind them, but the music still drifts up from below, a touch muted by the floorboards but still quite clear. Humming along, Goody raises his hands to cradle an imaginary partner and takes a little _pas seul_ around the room, moving through the steps of some half-remembered dance.

The song below holds a last note before fading out; Goody improvises an ending to the dance accordingly. When he turns, Billy is watching him with a soft smile that makes his heart swell in his chest just for the sight of it, all warmth and hopeless fondness. He grins in return and bows with a flourish.

“You’re ridiculous,” Billy says.

“So I have been told,” Goody agrees easily, as below the musicians begin another piece, this one somewhat more mellow. “I like to think it’s part of my charm,” he adds innocently. He reaches out to catch Billy’s hand in his and presses a playful kiss to his gloved knuckles. “Might I have the next dance?”

Billy appears somewhat bemused by the notion, but now as always, he’s quite happy to indulge Goody’s fey moods when they arise. He graciously allows Goody to arrange his hands and lead him through a few simple steps, swaying gently together to the pace of the music. There’s no practised art to it, but they always have moved easily together, anticipating each other with the ease of long familiarity. And there’s an incomparable grace Billy carries so effortlessly that steals his breath away, sure-footed and unhesitating as he lets Goody steer him around the worn rug.

Here and there they stumble a little, of course, unpractised steps catching each other off balance with the night’s drinks warm in their veins. And yet every mis-timed step is still more perfect than any dance he can remember from his youth, laughing softly together as they catch themselves and carry on. Of everything Billy has given him, there’s little he values more devoutly than these fleeting, perfect moments where the world beyond their closeness may as well not exist.

Something wistful and melancholy tugs at Goody’s heart as the music trails off again and their dance trails off with it, leaving themselves simply leaned in close against each other. Billy must catch the edges of it in his expression; he raises a questioning eyebrow, his arms tightening as he holds Goody in a little closer against him.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing of any consequence, mon cher,” Goody reassures him, brushing a kiss over his lips. He sighs softly. “But sometimes...oh darlin’, I’d give anything to have you on my arm for real. Not just hidden away like this. I’d love to be able to show off how damn lucky I am that you’re mine.”

Even after all this time, there’s a trace of something vulnerable in Billy’s eyes at the sentiment, as though he’s still unsure of how to respond to it. Goody cups a gentle hand around his cheek and kisses him again, more lingering this time. It’s a greater privilege than he’s ever deserved to be able to see his words touch Billy so soundly; to have the chance to tell him that he’s loved and cherished again and again until he believes it.

Music is still filtering up through the creaking floorboards as they settle onto the narrow bed, divesting each other of their remaining clothing with a familiar, unhurried ease. Goody bows his head to press his lips to Billy’s bared skin with reverent tenderness, overwhelmed anew with every touch by the knowledge of how lucky he is to have been given this. In all his life he’s done no better or more important thing than to care for Billy as best he can.

The bedframe creaks gently as they move together, hands familiar on each other’s bodies and soft noises lost between their lips, almost inaudible over the sounds of the festivities below. Even if they can only ever be together like this, kept carefully quiet behind the reassurance of a locked door, even if in all else they must maintain the facade of a respectably platonic affection, there is nothing in the world worth trading it for. What more could he ever ask for, than to share pleasure as equals with someone he trusts beyond any doubt.

Afterwards, warm and drowsy and content in the cradle of his lover’s arms, he tucks his face into the crook of Billy’s neck and breathes in the scent of him, savouring these moments of sleepy peace where the rest of the world seems distant and meaningless. He gives a soft, wordless murmur of contentment as Billy strokes absently through his hair, brushing stray strands back from his face.

“You’re getting greyer,” Billy murmurs, fingers curling gently in his hair.

Goody huffs a laugh. “Don’t spare my vanity, chéri,” he replies, brushing a tender thumb over the curve of Billy’s cheekbone. For his part, time seems scarcely to have touched Billy at all. The lines around his eyes are worn in a little deeper now, but he’s still just as beautiful as the day they met.

“Do you ever think about what we’ll do next?” Billy asks. There’s a pensive tone to his voice that catches Goody’s attention. He has a sense that perhaps his partner is referring to a question slightly more complex simply than their next stop on the road.

“I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

Billy considers him for a long moment before giving a small shrug. “I only meant, well…” He smiles and brushes his fingers again through Goody’s greying hair. “We’re not young anymore.”

“You’ve made me quite aware enough of that for one day, mon amour,” Goody replies dryly.

Billy’s smile deepens, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners. “It suits you,” he teases gently. Goody opens his mouth to respond — some retort, perhaps, about having the common manners to _share_ the location of the Fountain of Youth — but Billy’s smile is already fading as he sobers slightly. “Goody, we can only live like this for so long. I’m not as fast as I was ten years ago. What happens in ten years’ time?”

Something cold crawls down Goodnight’s spine. He’s never stepped up to incite a contest in anything other than utmost confidence that Billy will be the better, quicker shot; in all his life he’s never seen anyone else move like Billy does in a quick draw, swift and lethal as a striking snake. It sounds foolish to his own ears, now that he comes to consider it, but he’d never truly entertained the possibility that Billy might lose.

He swallows hard and squeezes gently at Billy’s hip, mustering a shadow of a smile. “I find it hard to picture you losing your edge,” he says, his tone purposely light. After a moment he sighs. “I hadn’t considered it, but you make a fair point. I’d swear I never used to be so stiff after a night sleeping on the ground. And spending all day in the saddle was a great deal easier when I was twenty.”

Billy gives a small shrug. “We’re not there yet,” he says, with a matter of fact certainty which leaves Goody in no doubt that he’s already given the possibility serious consideration. “But perhaps we should start thinking about what we’ll do when we can’t do this anymore.”

Goody lets his head fall back onto the pillow, staring up at the ceiling as he tries to give the matter the same practical consideration as Billy seems to have done. The very notion is more foreign to him than it should be. It’s not their habit to plan any further ahead than the next town, the next source of water, the next place to make camp. Certainly he’s never seriously entertained the notion that the life which has served them so well thus far might not do so for long.

He wouldn’t say it aloud, not when he can already picture the look which such an admission would put on Billy’s face, but he’d never assumed that he would live long enough for this life to cease to serve them.

It’s been a very, very long time since he last let himself imagine a future. Once, young and foolish and painfully naive, he’d assumed that he would be a father by now; married off to a faceless sweetheart after some perfectly romantic courtship, living a peaceful and unremarkable life. A neat little house, perhaps, and some respectable occupation the details of which entirely elude him now. He must have planned a future career once, mustn’t he? Surely as a youth he’d had a notion of what it was that he’d wished to do with his life.

But then had come the war, and with it his focus had narrowed to nothing but survival. A goal which, he’d since come to learn through bitter experience, had felt utterly hollow once attained.

Only in the past few years — only since Billy, since finding a love he’d thought himself too far gone to be capable of — has he found himself genuinely hoping for more time. But even then, he’d wished for nothing more than to continue as they are; nothing more than the road ahead and Billy by his side, and the chance at just a little more time together. Just this, just what they already have, is so much more than he’d thought he could ever have again.

Billy is, as always, quite right. For all that they’re still fit and hale, youth is a distant memory at this point; it won’t be so very long before the demands of the rootless life they lead are more than they can answer. They have years, to be sure, but they can’t know how many.

When he tries to imagine a peaceful retirement, his mind rebels. He can’t quite picture himself on some rustic homestead, doing— whatever one does on a homestead. Raising chickens? He doesn’t know how he’d make an honest living. The life he’s led has left him with few skills beyond talking his way into and out of trouble.

“I’m finding it hard to picture us settling down,” he admits, giving Billy a wry smile.

“It would be...different,” Billy concedes. He lowers his head and presses a reassuring kiss against Goody’s shoulder. “We needn’t do it all at once. Maybe after a while we start to wander a little less widely. Choose somewhere to come back to, to come and rest in between trips. Somewhere that’s ours.”

It’s been a very long time since Goodnight last let himself imagine a future. But when he has Billy describing it, his smile soft and something almost hopeful in his eyes, something clenches in his chest for how fiercely he suddenly _wants_ it. To have somewhere that’s theirs and theirs alone, where they needn’t fear thin walls or parted curtains. Somewhere to come home to after long weeks and months on the road.

Goody lays his head back down and closes his eyes, curling in a little closer against Billy. “When you talk like that, darlin’, I can almost see it,” he murmurs. They pass through so many places without ever leaving more than a fleeting impression. Just the thought of building something for themselves seems almost too good to be true.

Something in him still wavers at the thought of having to admit that he has nothing to contribute to a household. But even if they decided tomorrow that this is truly something they want, if they chose a place and agreed upon it, they’re a long way still from being in a position to do any more than that. They have time to decide what they want to make of this. He trusts that his eminently practical partner will not let them forge ahead without a feasible plan.

His heart aches sweetly for the thought that Billy has looked at the years and decades ahead, at the prospect of growing old, and decided that he wants them to do it together. Every time he thinks that he couldn’t possibly be more fortunate, Billy proves him wrong in the most unexpected of ways.

“Just...think about it,” Billy says.

Goody gives a low murmur of assent, nuzzling affectionately into Billy’s skin. “We’ll talk about it,” he promises softly. “We have time.”

Warm darkness wraps in around them as Billy leans over to blow out the lamp; they settle in more comfortably against each other, all sleepy peace. Goody feels almost as though he must be dreaming already, as through the promise shimmering ahead of him like a mirage can’t possibly survive the harsh light of morning. But then, whatever they choose to make of this, it hardly matters. Whether it’s on the road or finally settled, Billy is all the home he’ll ever need.


	18. we rise and fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little gratuitous French in this chapter. Translation:
> 
> "De toute ma vie je n'ai jamais rien tenu d'aussi parfait que toi" - "In all my life I've never held anything as perfect as you"

They allow themselves the luxury of a late start out of Cedar Ridge, ever eager to savour the novelty of a real bed. Dawn comes and goes unnoticed outside as they lie curled together in a peaceful haze, dozing in the shared warmth of their blankets.

There’s a different rhythm to the routine of rising and setting off from a rented room rather than a roadside camp, but it’s one no less familiar. They each take their turn at the washbasin, morning light playing over the floorboards as the breeze from the open window stirs the curtains, and carefully cover the marks they’ve left behind on each other’s skin as they dress. As always, they take care to rumple the blankets on the second bed before they leave, giving at least the superficial impression of it having been slept in.

They take breakfast before departing. This too is a rare indulgence for them, to sit down to as civilised a meal as one can find in a frontier lumber town, cooked fresh on a stovetop. It makes a welcome change from what they can cook for themselves out on the trail; whatever can be carried for weeks in desert heat without spoiling and prepared over a campfire.

In the years they’ve travelled together, Goody has never thought of this — a good meal shared in companionable quiet, with the prospect of an easy ride in fair weather ahead of them — to be lacking. But after their conversation the previous night, he can’t help but indulge himself in imagining what it would be to have more than this; to wake in a bed made for two, and not have to spare a thought for what anyone else might make of the state of the sheets. To be able to enjoy the sight of the loving bites and bruises they’ve left on one another’s skin as they prepare and share a meal in the privacy of their own home.

It’s a distant prospect still; in practical terms they’re no closer to it than they were a day ago. But it warms some tender part of him that’s lain silent for a very long time, the thought that one day they might get to make a home together.

They ride out shortly after noon, the skies clear and the warmth of the sun tempered by a cool breeze whispering through the trees. The roads are wet with the spring rains, but not so much so as to hinder them greatly, the horses leaving a trail of clearly defined hoofprints in the firm mud behind them. They’re in no great hurry to arrive anywhere in particular in any case. They needn’t press on with any real urgency.

Cloud begins to drift ponderously across the sky as the day wears on, casting vast, shifting shadows over the land. The air grows heavy with the scent of rain to come; they abandon the notion of making further onward progress earlier than is their habit, choosing to focus instead on finding somewhere sheltered to make camp. The lay of the land offers little in the way of natural shelter here, all rolling hills and river valleys, but the woodland around the trail is plentiful. The first drops of rain are starting to fall as they choose a spot, unfurling a rarely-used roll of canvas to string up between the trees for shelter.

More often they keep to dry desert and scrub of the lands near the border; despite a creeping damp chill raising shivers, there’s a pleasing novelty to this. The rain drums steadily on the canvas, their campfire an island of warmth and light amid the deepening gloom as they prepare their evening meal. Outside of their makeshift shelter, the horses — relieved of their packs and saddles to keep said items dry — graze idly on fresh green shoots, apparently unperturbed by the rain.

After dinner they lie by the still merrily crackling fire, rain still whispering through the leaves and rattling off the canvas, and share a cigarette lazily between them as they look over their maps. Their collection has only grown over the years, most of them tattered and much-folded, annotated both in Billy’s neat, angular handwriting and Goody’s looping scrawl. They’re experienced travellers, but a good map never outlives its usefulness.

“I think from here our best option is to continue west,” Goody says, tracing the route with a fingertip as he speaks, “And then come down the western shore of the lake. That should put us in McAlester in about a week.”

Billy blows out a thin stream of smoke and squints contemplatively at the map. “Or we ford the river here—” He punctuates the statement with an illustrative tap at the worn paper “—and head southwest. It’ll save us two days.”

“At this time of year?” Goody shakes his head. “It’ll be too swollen with snowmelt to ford.”

Billy shrugs and takes another long draw on the cigarette. “It’s been a mild winter,” he points out reasonably, tapping ash from the end of the cigarette and offering it to Goody.

Goody casts him a dubious look as he reaches out to take it. “I’m not sure it’s been _that_ mild, chéri.” 

“It’s hardly out of our way. We can try it without losing time.” Rather than make his point with the aid of the map — they’ve been staring at it enough to have it half committed to memory by now in any case — Billy opts instead to nuzzle into the crook of Goody’s neck, nipping playfully at the tender skin there. As a distraction tactic, Goodnight considers this quite unfair.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he says, a little too breathlessly to feign annoyance.

He can feel the impish curve of Billy smile against his throat. “Is it working?”

Goody sighs and tilts his head back, an invitation in the baring of his throat which Billy readily accepts, and closes his eyes as he lifts the cigarette to his lips. He feels as though he’s floating, immersed in the warmth of the smoke in his lungs and the warmth of the fire on the side of his face and the warmth of Billy’s mouth mapping a steady path down the side of his neck.

“We’ll discuss this further in the morning,” Goody murmurs, smoke coiling up toward the canvas with the words as he speaks, “When we’re on horseback and you can’t cheat.”

Billy gives a soft laugh, and leans up to kiss the smoke from his lips. 

They continue to debate their route throughout the next day. Truth be told, it makes little difference either way, and Billy was quite right in pointing out that they lose nothing by making the small detour to see if the shorter road is passable. But the playful bickering eases the monotony of their horses’ steady pace along the road, and he has no intention of depriving himself of the delightful sight of the fond exasperation with which Billy rolls his eyes at a particularly spurious line of argument.

The clouds remain low and close overhead over the next few days, but the threatened rain fails to fall, speeding their travels as the roads dry out and become more easily negotiable for the horses. The debate over their route, perhaps inevitably, ultimately escalates into a friendly wager. They make their living on gambling, after all, and such a thing becomes habit very easily. There’s nothing quite like raising the stakes to keep things interesting.

Or so Goody would have said. Billy appears skeptical of the suggestion when it’s raised some two days' travel short of the ford. 

“Wager what?” he asks. “Everything we have is already shared.”

“I’m sure the victor will be able to come up with a suitable penance for the loser,” Goody replies, giving a playful little leer. “Whatever your heart desires, amour.”

Billy laughs. “I don’t need to best you in a bet for that,” he points out matter of factly.

Goody rolls his eyes. Not that he’s in any way wrong, but could at least make a token effort to play along. “Use your imagination, darlin’. I’m sure you’ll think of something.” He pauses to consider this and grins. “Unless, of course, I win and spare you the necessity.”

“Fine.” Billy nudges his horse a little closer and extends a hand, which Goody readily shakes to seal the agreement. “You’re on.”

They set off early the next day, continuing to playfully bait each other regarding their wager throughout the morning. Goody muses at length about what he might choose for his prize should he win, growing more ridiculous with every iteration; Billy refuses to drawn on the matter, responding only with a mysterious smile when questioned on his own plans.

The ford, naturally, is easily passable when they reach it. Billy is quietly smug for the rest of the day.

Goody talks at indignant length as they ride about the inconstancy of rivers, and the sad state of the world when a man can’t even rely upon nature to behave as it should. There’s no bite of genuine annoyance to it though. Billy makes no mention of what he intends for his prize, but nonetheless, by the time they dismount to make camp for the night Goody is rather looking forward to paying his forfeit.

They string up the canvas again, as they have the past few nights — the rain may have held off, but the clouds remain ominous, and a midnight dousing would be a rude awakening indeed — and set up camp with practised efficiency. Goody scarcely notes what they have for dinner. No sooner have they finished clearing their plates than he’s leaning in to steal a kiss, his fingertips creeping up under the hem of Billy’s shirt.

“Shall we discuss the stakes of our wager?” he murmurs against Billy’s lips.

Billy kisses him again before pulling away, a distinct spark of mischief in his eyes. “Not tonight,” he replies.

Goody arches an eyebrow at him. “I rather feel you’re failing to enter into the spirit of things, mon amour.”

Billy grins and curls a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him into a deeper, hungrier kiss which leaves him feeling weak and breathless. He can still scarcely believe how helplessly, dizzyingly _wanting_ Billy can leave him feeling with just a touch, just a kiss; a puppet on a string, in eager thrall to the slightest twitch of Billy’s fingers. It’s no hardship to be diverted by so pleasing a distraction.

“I won,” Billy reminds him, bumping their foreheads gently together. “And I say it can wait until we have a bed.”

Curiosity sparks in him for what, exactly, his partner has in mind. But he knows Billy well enough to know that he’ll refuse to be drawn on the matter until he’s good and ready. Knowing him, he likely considers driving Goodnight wild with anticipation to be half the fun. Eager as he may be, however, he’s willing to be patient. When the mood takes Billy to tease, the payoff is always more than worth any frustrations along the way.

Despite his resolve to take the wait in good grace, the remainder of the ride to McAlester seems to last an eternity. It’s a greater pleasure than he would have thought possible to finally see the uninspiring little mining town come into view over the crest of a hill, holding a tantalising promise in the plain, blocky shape of its boarding house.

They dispense with the familiar process of stabling their horses and taking a room with little fuss, and settle in to take a meal and pass the evening in the saloon. The atmosphere is pleasant enough, and the drink plentiful; even so, Goody can’t help but anticipate the moment they excuse themselves and slip off to their room. The later the night wears on, the more attuned he is to every slightest movement Billy makes in his seat, every time he draws breath as though to speak.

So caught up in awaiting the moment, he’s almost at a loss for how to respond when it finally comes. Billy drapes an arm casually across the back of his chair and leans in just a little. “I think it’s time we retired for the night, don’t you?” he asks lightly, all innocence as though he hasn’t had Goody keenly anticipating it for days. 

Goody swallows hard and immediately reaches to settle up for their drinks.

The short walk to their room passes in a blur. No sooner has the lock clicked behind them than he’s dropping to his knees, his hands sliding up Billy’s thighs as he nuzzles eagerly into the inseam of his pants. Let it never be said that Goodnight Robicheaux is remiss in paying his debts; he’ll gladly serve out his penance at Billy’s command.

Before can give more than a tease of what’s to come, however, Billy’s fingers are curling in under his jaw, gently but insistently tilting his head up. There’s an indulgent fondness in the curve of his smile, his eyes crinkled warmly at the corners; Goody turns his face into the touch, laying a kiss against Billy’s palm. It has a softer satisfaction blossoming with aching sweetness in his chest, to know that he can offer this to Billy without any trace of wariness for what might come of it. He trusts Billy. No matter what may follow, he knows that he’ll be treated with tenderness, with care; that any rougher handling will remain well within the bounds of what they both know that he enjoys. Billy isn't the kind of man who would take his pleasure at a partner’s expense.

“On the bed,” Billy says, indicating said furnishing with a nod. 

Goody nips playfully at his fingers and complies, rising a mite unsteadily to his feet and taking a few steps away. “How do you want me, darlin’?” he asks, spreading his arms to display the goods on offer.

“Naked,” Billy replies without hesitation. There’s a sharp jolt of lust in the pit of Goody’s stomach.

He’s nothing if not eager to obey, but with some difficulty he restrains himself, slowing his pace enough to make a show of it as he sheds his clothes. First his coat, shrugged off and dropped carelessly to the floor; then his waistcoat, undone one button at a time before joining it. Billy’s eyes are hungry as he watches, stripping to shirtsleeves himself and pulling his boots off, but making no move to bare any more skin than that.

The shamelessly appreciative sweep of Billy’s gaze over his skin only fans the flames of his arousal; he’s fully hard by the time he sheds his pants, leaving him standing nude in the cool air of their rented room. The curve of his smile is all invitation as he settles onto the bed, artfully laying himself out to display his body to its best advantage.

Apparently satisfied, at last Billy crosses over to him, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning down to take a deep, lingering kiss. Goody can do nothing but melt into it.

He chases the kiss as Billy pulls away, propping himself up on an elbow; his fingers curl into the fabric of Billy’s shirt as it brushes over his bare skin, leaving him overwhelmingly aware of the disparity in their respective states of dress. Not that he’s in any way opposed to being on display for his lover’s enjoyment — on the contrary, the mere thought has a fresh bloom of heat spreading through him — but he rather feels that he’s being unfairly deprived of the sight of Billy’s skin.

He skims his fingers down the seam of the shirt and catches the fabric where it’s tucked into Billy’s waistband, tugging the hem free. “Please,” he murmurs, “I want to see you.”

“You lost,” Billy reminds him, gently reproachful. But he indulges the request nonetheless, pausing to strip his shirt off over his head and bare the lean muscle of his torso to Goody’s appreciative gaze. He’s truly beautiful like this, all easy confidence, knowing damn well what the sight of his scar-kissed skin golden in the lamplight is doing to Goody.

It’s hard not to feel inadequate beside him. Even after all these years, Goody can’t help a fleeting touch of self-consciousness. Better men than he would compare poorly to the vision his lover makes like this, the eye catching on the span of his shoulders and the shift of muscle under his skin as he moves with thoughtless grace. He’s never felt as though he could possibly measure up to such a standard, too-thin and worn down by the years as he is.

Unfavourable as the comparison may seem, the thought lacks any true sting when despite it all, he has Billy smiling down at him with fond warmth undisguised in his eyes. He may never feel as though he in any way deserves this, but that hardly seems to matter when he’s so fortunate as to have it regardless. Billy has never made him feel anything less than wanted, than desired.

He watches hungrily as Billy pulls away a little further to undress completely, letting his clothes fall carelessly to the floor. Goody _aches_ with how desperately he wants him, how eager he is to give everything and anything that’s asked of him. He may have lost this particular wager, but he certainly doesn’t feel as though he’s come off the worse for it. To be entirely at Billy’s mercy is a pleasure and a privilege.

His breath catches in his throat as Billy, finally naked and moving with the lazy intent of a predator, settles in to straddle him, effectively pinning him to the bed. Billy’s eyes glint mischievously, and Goody feels his heart skip a beat in breathless anticipation; a shiver runs through him as Billy’s hands slide over his, guiding him to raise them and grip the headboard.

“Don’t move,” Billy says, a note of command in his voice that sends sparks running up Goody’s spine. He squeezes pointedly — Goody licks suddenly dry lips and nods in acknowledgement, not trusting his voice to hold steady — before releasing his grip and sitting back, surveying the prize spread out before him with a thoughtful air.

Already Goody wishes he were free to touch, his fingers flexing around the smooth wood of the bedframe as his eyes eagerly trace the path his hands can’t over Billy’s thighs and up his flanks. He’ll never tire of mapping out the shape of his lover’s body, learning and relearning every inch of him. But tonight, he is at Billy’s command; he doesn’t doubt for a moment that the reward for complying will be greater than anything he might wish to reach for himself.

“I’m all yours, chéri,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire.

Billy smiles, his eyes soft as he leans down to take a lingering kiss, his loose hair falling in a dark curtain around their faces. “I know,” he replies, his thumb brushing gently along Goody’s jawline. It warms his heart the simple certainty in those words, the unspoken promise that his love and devotion is understood. In this and in all else, he belongs to Billy.

Eager anticipation is bubbling in his chest as Billy leans over to reach for the bottle of oil, popping the cork one-handed with the ease of long practice. He pours a little out onto his fingers before pausing and leaning back, his expression contemplative. Absently he rubs his thumb over the slick digits, making no move to put them to use; it’s all Goody can do not to whine at the teasing.

And then, seeming to come to a decision, he shifts up onto his knees and reaches down between his own legs. Goody’s breath catches sharply as sudden realisation burns him down to his bones. 

“Darlin’...” he whispers. 

Billy smiles and leans down to kiss him again. “Hush,” he murmurs, nudging their noses gently together. “Trust me.”

There’s a twist of unease in the pit of his stomach at the distant but still vivid memory of the first time they’d tested these waters together. But when Billy is asking for his faith, of course he can do nothing but give it. How can he do anything else, when at every turn he’s stunned anew by how much Billy is willing to offer him, by how undeservedly fortunate he is to have been given this?

He grips the headboard tight and tries valiantly not to squirm, gazing up all helpless awe as Billy closes his eyes and tips his head back, his expression one of concentration as he works himself open. Lord but he’s beautiful, his lips parted and a flush staining his cheeks. If Goodnight had indulged himself in any idle fantasies of this sort after their first failed venture, it would have been just like this: Billy self-possessed and in control, feeling out the shape of what he wants at his own unhurried pace.

With everything in him, he aches to be able to touch; to smooth tender hands over Billy’s skin, to hold him close and feel every tremor that ripples through him. But it’s no hardship to put himself in Billy’s capable hands, to cede control and let him have this on his own terms. The very sight of him like this is a gift.

The mattress shifts as Billy adjusts his balance and carefully eases his fingers free. Even like this — dark-eyed, flushed and breathless with want — there remains a certain methodical calm about him. Goody would admire it regardless, but in this more than anything, it makes the rare moments in which his composure slips all the sweeter.

His own composure, already hanging by a fragile thread, very nearly fails him entirely as Billy’s slick fingers curl around his cock and stroke lazily. He lets his head fall back against the pillow and moans helplessly, his hips arching up off the bed of their own accord. And then Billy’s grip changes, from teasing to guiding, and for an endless moment he swears his heart stops in his chest.

His world is reduced to naught but sensation; the desire coiling greedily in the pit of his stomach, and the whisper of cool air over his lust-fevered skin. The shift of the mattress and the flex of Billy’s thighs where they’re splayed around his hips as he eases himself down. The pounding of his own heartbeat hammering against the cage of his ribs. The crashing waves of all-consuming pleasure dragging him under as he sinks inch by excruciating inch into the slick heat of his lover’s body.

He draws in a ragged breath, his grip tightening convulsively on the bedframe as he gazes up at Billy in wide-eyed, reverent wonder. For once in his life, his gilded tongue fails him. No words could possibly do the moment justice.

And then Billy gives an exploratory roll of his hips, and Goody arches up with a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. Lord above he feels incredible, maddeningly tight, every slightest move he makes shaking through Goody right down to his bones. He rocks his hips up just a little, yielding to the instinct to press deeper into that intoxicating grip, and is rewarded with a sharp gasp.

“Oh,” Billy breathes, a tremor running through him as his eyes flutter shut. His hands are braced on Goody’s chest, his hair falling loose around his face. The unsteady rush of his breathing is the only sound in the hush of the room.

“You feel incredible, chéri,” Goody murmurs reverently, even the desperate desire burning through him a mere footnote beside the aching fondness swelling in his chest. He shifts his hips just a little, encouraging. “Take whatever you want, amour. I’m yours.”

Billy shivers and blinks, looking more than a little dazed as he gazes down at Goody with dark, lust-hazed eyes. A hint of a smile curls the corner of his lips; he shifts his weight, the mattress creaking faintly as he raises up a little, and sinks all the way back down onto Goody's cock with a heartfelt shudder of pleasure. Goody gives a choked-off moan.

Apparently emboldened, Billy repeats the motion, rolling his hips with the fluid ease of one well used to long days in the saddle. Goody rocks up to meet him; the ragged sounds of their breathing are soon joined by the steady creak of the mattress and the slap of flesh on flesh as they find a rhythm together.

His knuckles are white where they grip the headboard, the dig of his nails into the wood the only thing grounding him when the rest of his world is narrowed to nothing but the sweet vise of Billy’s body and the aching need for more. He has very little purchase to thrust in his current position, but it hardly matters when Billy is riding him with single-minded purpose.

He wants so desperately to hold onto this; to the pleasure coursing dizzyingly in his veins, and the incomparable vision Billy makes above him, all shifting muscle under sweat-sheened skin and eyes dark with want. But he can feel his release building at the base of his spine, the waves cresting higher with every roll of Billy’s hips. It would take a stronger man than he to hold firm in the face of such sweet torment. He bites down hard on his lip to stifle his cry and comes with a choked-off, keening whine.

Half drunk on pleasure as the aftershocks ripple through him, he can do little but gaze up in stupefied admiration at the sight of Billy unabashedly chasing his own completion, grinding purposefully down with a hand wrapped around his cock. “If you could only see how beautiful you are like this,” he breathes, watching the way Billy shivers for the words.

He’s breathtaking when he comes, arching up and tipping his head back with a soft, wordless cry. Goody gives a heartfelt groan, so oversensitive still that the feeling of Billy tightening around him is almost unbearable.

Slowly they come down together, easing into the warm lassitude of the afterglow. Billy, still breathing hard from the exertion, leans in to catch his lips in a soft, clumsy kiss that makes his heart ache with the artless tenderness of it. Finally prying his fingers loose from their grip on the headboard, he wraps his arms around Billy and cradles him close.

“Oh, my love,” he whispers, stroking Billy’s hair back from his face and dusting feather-light kisses over his skin. “You are _exquisite_. De toute ma vie je n'ai jamais rien tenu d'aussi parfait que toi.” His senses are full of nothing but Billy; the warmth of his body and the boneless weight of him sated and sleepy, the sound of his breathing, the salt taste of the sweat sheening his skin and the scent of their coupling hanging heavy in the air. He could happily lie like this forever.

The flush still painted across Billy’s cheekbones deepens a little; he tucks his face into the crook of Goody’s neck, sparking a wave of hopeless fondness in his heart. All these years and Billy still hasn’t quite learned how to field the shameless sincerity of his praise.

“I love you,” Billy murmurs almost inaudibly against his skin. 

Goody smiles and holds him a little closer. “I love you too.”

They shift lazily into a more comfortable position on the bed, still curled in close together. Goody smooths his hand gently down the length of Billy’s flank, savouring the moment of sleepy peace. “You good, darlin’?” he asks softly, nudging their noses together. Not that Billy’s enjoyment had seemed anything less than genuine, but he knows well that in the moment, the heady rush of pleasure can mask many small discomforts.

Billy gives a murmur of assent, curling in a little closer. If that were in any way insufficient ressurance, the easy lassitude in the lines of his body would be more than enough to make up the difference, utterly relaxed and trusting in Goody’s arms. Goody presses a tender kiss against his forehead before carefully disentangling himself and moving to stand.

The noise Billy makes behind him is half question and half sleepy protest. Goody smiles to himself as he crosses over to the washstand; he rinses off himself before turning, damp washcloth in hand, to settle back onto the bed.

“Do you remember doing this for me, chéri?” he asks, sliding the washcloth methodically over the soft skin of Billy’s thighs, “That first time?”

“I do,” Billy says, his dark hair spilling over the pillow as he turns his head to watch Goody work with soft fondness in his eyes. His thumb brushes gently over the ridge of Goody’s hipbone. “I was so worried I’d hurt you.”

Goody pauses to lean down and press a tender kiss against his lips. “Never, darlin’,” he promises softly. Even in the darker moments when some self-destructive part of him has wanted it to be otherwise, he’s never felt anything less than safe and well cared for in Billy’s hands. He hopes only that in the rare times when their positions are reversed, Billy has always been able to say the same of him.

He lets the washcloth fall to the floor when he’s done and leans over to blow out the oil lamp, warm darkness wrapping in around them as he curls into the blankets. Billy kisses him again, lazy and lingering as they melt back in against each other. There are soft, meaningless murmurs of reassurance and love caught up on his lips as he settles in more comfortably against the warmth of Billy's body, Billy's fingertips stroking with thoughtless affection down the length of his spine and lulling him to a place of sleepy peace. It never awes him any less, that he could truly be so fortunate as to have this; to love, and to be loved in return. 

No matter what may come of this in the end, simply to have held it is more than he could ever have hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends the backstory. There will now follow a short hiatus while I work on the final two chapters, which will deal with Rose Creek. Thank you to everyone who’s left comments and encouragement, both here and on tumblr (you can find me at [clairecreatesathing](https://clairecreatesathing.tumblr.com/) for progress updates, sneak previews, and gratuitous art)


	19. as our ashes turn to dust

Sooner or later, life always finds a way to knock a man off course again once he's found some sort of equilibrium. One day they're besting would-be gunslingers with more money than sense — and shortly thereafter little of either — in quick draw competitions in scrap of nothing little towns, and the next, Sam Chisolm is riding back into his life.

Well. More accurately he sends an envoy — in the form of the inimitable Joshua Faraday, who Goody almost likes despite himself — and isn't that the heart of the matter right there. The man knows he doesn't even have to show face himself to get Goodnight's attention. 

Why would he, after all, when even this is enough? He owes Sam. He knows that right down in his bones, knows that without Sam Chisolm and his unholy gift for leading men whether they want to be led or not, he would have been dead in a ditch long before Billy ever had the chance to cross paths with him. By his own admission he's far from whole, but even this is several steps above the human wreckage he was immediately after the end of the war.

It's too late in the day to be worth setting out by the time they've finished getting acquainted, and accordingly they spend one last night in scenic Volcano Springs. The click of the door of their shabby little room locking promises the last moment of privacy they're liable to have for some days, a fleeting sense of quiet and peace deeper than can be disturbed by the sounds of the still-lively saloon drifting on the night air. Goodnight strips to the waist before turning to the washbasin, cupping the tepid water in his hands to wash away the dust and sweat of the day. Behind him, Billy is undressing with methodical quiet, laying his clothes down on the artfully rumpled second bed.

The floorboards creak as Billy crosses the small room to wind his arms in around Goody's waist from behind, breath stirring the hair at the nape of his neck. Goody sighs softly and turns in his arms to kiss him. With gentle, practised hands he pulls the pin out to let Billy's hair fall loose around his face, taking the time to set the engraved pin down on the washstand before sinking his fingers into that soft fall of dark hair. Billy shivers against him, his breath hitching a little as he tilts his head into the touch.

"Whatever this is, it won't be easy," Goody says quietly.

"Where you go, I go," Billy replies, and kisses him again.

They set off early the next morning. The journey to their rendezvous should not by rights be a long or arduous one; indeed, if he’d had just Billy by his side as was the natural way of things, it would have been downright pleasant. Some of his fondest memories are of the long days they’ve spent on the trail together, of meandering conversations punctuated by lulls of companionable quiet. After all these years it’s as natural as breathing to pass their days together in the dust of the trail with nothing else but the whisper of the wind and the steady rhythm of hoofbeats to disturb them.

In a way, that’s precisely the problem. Neither of them are accustomed to having company besides each other on the trail any more, to having to accommodate the pace and habits of a stranger. He’s constantly aware of Billy’s irritation with their travelling companions, well-hidden behind an inscrutable mask but easily discernible to one who knows him as well as Goody does. Billy values their privacy highly under the best of circumstances, and neither of their companions had made the greatest first impression.

For his part, Goody has always been more personable than his taciturn partner, happy to make meaningless conversation with a passing acquaintance. Much as a sense of nagging wrongness tugs at him to see Billy so quiet and guarded, he can tolerate the situation for the promise of its brevity, and focus instead of taking the chance to get the measure of the men they’re travelling with.

The younger man, who’d given his name as Teddy, is either possessed of a naturally sour disposition or as dubious about the arrangement as Billy is. Goodnight is rather inclined to think it might be both. He’s civil, for the most part, but clearly has little enthusiasm for his circumstances.

And then there’s Joshua Faraday. He undoubtedly has a certain rough-edged charm, but there’s a wildness to it that Goodnight has seen often enough to be wary of. He makes his living on reading people, after all, on judging when to goad and when to exercise caution. In this, all his instincts are advising caution. He knows a powder keg of a man when he sees one, and no amount of roguish humour and drinking songs can distract from it.

They make their journey at a purposeful pace, aiming to make the rendezvous in a timely fashion even after the extra night they’d spent in Volcano Springs. And yet for all their destination is already well known to him, somehow none of it truly seems real until he swings down from his horse, and for the first time in more than a decade, finds himself face to face with Sam Chisolm in the flesh.

A warm burst of affection blossoms in his chest as Sam unhesitatingly catches him in a tight embrace, years falling away in the sound of their shared huff of incredulous laughter and the familiar curve of Sam’s smile. For a fleeting moment he’s a young man again, drunk on the first fragile revelation that after so long resigned to despair, uncertainty can feel almost like hope.

He pulls back and drinks in the sight of his old friend, eyes catching on the changes the years have wrought. There are no shortage of those; the time they’ve been parted has left its marks on both of them, older now and wearied by hardship as they are. But Sam carries the weight of the years with a dignified ease that Goody has never mastered, the lines worn in around his eyes lending an air of gravitas to his already commanding presence. He’s everything that Goody remembers and more.

He can feel Billy’s curious gaze on the back of his neck. For now at least, he ignores it. There will be time for that conversation later.

Their employer, a Miss Emma Cullen, is younger than he might have expected. But there’s steel in the straight-backed way she holds herself, despite her evident unease with the collection of brigands she’s found herself allied with. He thinks that perhaps he sees something familiar in her eyes, something furious and unrelenting that burns with a deceptive, volcanic calm. Perhaps it was fate that she and Sam should find one another.

It’s still strange to travel in any company beyond Billy, much less one which finds them already eclectic, and only becomes more so with every new compatriot they acquire. Circumstances may have made them allies, but they are each and every one of them dangerous men. For now, their purposes may be aligned, but it’s hard to know to what extent their reasons are. A healthy touch of wariness is only wise.

Still, he can’t help but be buoyed by the thrill of riding beside Sam again after all these years. There’s a deep, wistful nostalgia to being here like this again, especially in the quieter moments of peace and relative privacy they find, talking softly together in the flickering light of a campfire under the vault of stars. He remembers all too clearly a time when this was all either of them had. 

They’d cared for each other. Of course they had; too deeply perhaps. They’d been young and lost and wearing their wounds with a bleeding, desperate rawness they’d never known how to heal themselves of, much less each other. When they’d ultimately parted ways, it had been in bittersweet acceptance of the fact that they should have done so sooner. The deceptive sense of equilibrium they’d found in each other had been limbo; they had held each other back from a sharper and uglier descent, but so too had they held each other back from moving on.

It had been the right decision. But he still wonders, sometimes, what might have come of it had their paths never diverged.

For all that he might indulge himself in wistful what-ifs, the visceral sense memory of those times makes it all the clearer to him how truly fortunate he is to have found what he has in Billy. Here and now, sitting with Sam under the weight of their shared history, it doesn’t seem so very long since he never would have entertained for a second the thought that he could ever have this.

He wonders what unseen changes their time parted has wrought in Sam, hidden even from the knowing gaze of an old friend. They both have their demons, cruel and merciless still even after all these years. He hopes devoutly that just as he has found a measure of peace and comfort in Billy — bedded down the aching distance of the camp away and still soothing Goodnight’s soul by the mere fact of his presence — so too has Sam found something, anything, that dulls the sharp edges of old pain for him.

Everything in him aches to close the distance between them, to bed down beside Billy and fall asleep in the haven of his arms, anyone else’s opinion of their closeness be damned. But until they have the measure of their companions, better to err on the side of caution. Should things take a turn for the unpleasant, they’re severely outnumbered, and liable to come off the worse for it. They can make up for lost time after reaching the relative privacy of whatever hotel or boarding house their destination may have to offer.

Sam, of course, knows him better than most; well enough to read something in the way his gaze lingers on Billy’s slumbering form. But he’s never feared judgement from Sam, in this least of all.

“How long you been riding together?” Sam asks, indicating Billy with a nod.

“Seven years come summer,” Goody replies, neither expecting nor trying to hide the hopeless fondness in the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips. There’s a strange thrill to the words, as though the mere act of speaking them aloud makes them in some way more true. It’s been a long time, but he can’t help the instinct to trust Sam; to trust that he’ll understand the weight of this, the importance of it.

Sam is watching him, a strange, wistful curiosity in the tilt of his head and something in his eyes that Goody doesn’t quite know how to read. He draws breath as though to speak before seeming to think better of it, lowering his eyes with a small shake of his head. A flicker of unease stirs in the pit of Goody’s stomach.

“I wasn’t sure if I should ask you to come,” Sam says eventually. There’s so much unspoken in that one simple sentence that Goody hardly knows where to begin with it. They may not have spoken in a good ten years, but clearly Sam had been keeping enough of an ear out for news about him to know exactly where to find him. It’s hard to judge how much else he might have known.

Goody swallows down a welter of doubts and confessions and gives a weary smile. “I would never have forgiven either of us if you hadn’t.” _If I hadn’t_. There’s a gnawing doubt in the depths of his soul for how much use he can truly be, should this come to a fight; should an eclectic collection of gunhands not be enough to run off whatever hired muscle is terrorising this town. He hasn’t trusted his own hands for a long time. The memory of the gunsmoke-shrouded dark of the bounty hunters’ camp still haunts him.

Doubt crawls up his spine, as it so often does when he lets himself linger on the thought. He isn’t a soldier any more. Save scattered incidents outwith their control, it’s been years since he’d had to bear any battle wounds but those left with love when he and Billy take to rougher play with a little too much enthusiasm; bruises and scratches and the occasional rope burn. He doesn’t know that he has another fight like what Sam’s leading them toward left in him.

But whether he’s materially of use or not in the end, he needed to be here. He knows what this means to Sam. After all these years, he might be the only person left who truly does.

Rose Creek, when they finally crest the hill above the town to see it spread out before them, looks to be no more and no less than any other spit of nothing mining town he’s rode through over the years. The signs of its recent strife are everywhere to the trained eye — the burnt out shell of the church certainly draws the gaze — and the thugs they’ve come to dispatch are easily discernible by the wide berth the skittish townfolk give them.

With a more solid notion of the lay of the land, they pause just out of sight of the town to discuss their options. Even with the counsel of locals, there’s no way for them to approach unmarked, and a mere glance is enough to show that they’re well outnumbered. Without some tactical advantage of position, their endeavours might well come to a premature end before they’ve built up any head of steam.

The obvious solution is a diversion, to draw the gaze of their waiting adversaries while they move into position. The logic of it is inarguable, and nor can Goodnight raise any meaningful protest against the ultimate decision that Sam and Billy should lead the way. But still, it tests his fragile sense of calm sorely, watching these two men who each mean so much to him in their own way walk calmly into the lion’s den.

The rest of them slip into the town, taking what high ground and cover there is to be found around the growing knot of hired muscle that Sam and Billy have attracted. The tension is palpable, thick enough to choke on where it hangs in the air like smoke. Goody’s heart thrums in his chest like a rabbit’s, his hands wandering through the distracted motions of a dozen different nervous tics; adjusting his cravat, toying with his pocketwatch, worrying at the edges of half-healed scratches. He swallows hard and clings for all he can to what pitiful shreds of resolve he can muster.

It isn’t enough.

With the ringing report of the first shot he’s transported, every muscle seizing in blind panic as his instincts scream to flee. His finger freezes on the trigger, leaving him a mere bystander watching in numb horror as the fight surges around him. The prowess of his companions saves his miserable hide, but he is not so lucky as to be spared their notice.

Billy’s hands are sure and unhesitating as he takes the rifle, looking it over with dark, unreadable eyes. “It’s jammed,” he states flatly in a tone which brooks no argument. Even the wave of pitiful gratitude that washes over Goody isn’t enough to soften the edges of the sick shame twisting in the pit of his stomach.

The rest of the day passes in something of a blur. The compulsive worrying of his ragged nails has torn open a raw patch on the inside of his wrist; he can feel Billy’s gaze lingering on the hastily applied bandage, on the dark spots of blood flecking his sleeve. Beyond that, he’s aware of little other than the cold weight in his chest. This was a mistake. They shouldn’t have come here.

By the end of the day, they retire to their rooms with something resembling a plan. If anyone thinks it odd that he and Billy elect to share a room, they refrain from passing comment within earshot. By this point Goody could hardly give a damn either way. He’s exhausted and jittery and his hands haven’t stopped shaking since the shootout; all he wants is to sink into the comfort of his lover’s arms, discretion be damned, and pretend for just a few moments that this wasn’t a horrible mistake.

Billy, of course, insists on checking over the wound on his wrist before they retire to bed. His touch is as gentle as ever, but there’s something unhappy in his eyes, his lips pressed together and the line of his shoulders tight. Guilt twinges sharply in the hollow space behind Goody’s breastbone.

“This should have healed by now,” Billy says, a hint of reproach in his voice as he runs a thumb lightly over the puckered nascent scar tissue along the edges of the still-angry cut.

Goody sighs. “I know,” he replies quietly. It should be a simple matter to leave a minor wound to heal, but his fingers wander to it without conscious direction when his mind is in turmoil.

He tugs his wrist gently but insistently out of Billy’s grip, and leans in instead to take a lingering kiss. Billy is still against him for a long moment before sighing and returning it, his hand coming up to wrap around the back of Goody’s neck.

There are meaningless prayers and penances caught up in jumbled whispers on his lips as he scatters butterfly kisses over Billy’s mouth and cheeks and the line of his jaw, all _I know_ and _I love you_ and _I’m sorry_. They shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have let Billy get caught up in this. He shouldn’t have flirted so carelessly with his own demons after the long and patient years Billy has put into trying to heal him.

They shouldn’t have come here. But in this moment at least, they have a locked door and the comfort of each other’s arms, and in this breathless space of tenuous peace, he can let himself be lulled into sleep by the steady beat of Billy’s heart.

But then morning comes, as it always does, it with it comes the hard reality of the gruelling task they have ahead of them. He makes himself useful where he can; steadies himself with quick gulps of whisky, until his head starts to spin and Billy steals the flask from his hands with an implacable matter-of-fact air. Thereafter he seeks what solace he can in cloying-sweet smoke and the bite of his nails into raw skin.

There's an inevitability to the path they find themselves on those last few days. He can see it laid out before him as clear as a paved road; Bogue's army descending on the woefully underprepared town, the frightened townspeople torn apart by gunfire. It's not a war that's coming to them, but as far as Rose Creek is concerned, it's as near as makes no difference. 

They train farmhands who've never fired a gun in anger before, lay traps and steal dynamite and scavenge ammo. Perhaps, in quiet moments, they almost let themselves believe that they can win this fight.

Goody knows better. All the optimism was bled out of him a long time ago, and he knows with painful intimacy how fragile a legend can be. They are, each and every one of them, exceptional men. On their best day any of them could take out a dozen common gunhands, given the right luck and the chance to fight on their own terms. But seven men are not an army, and an army is what's coming for them. 

It's not a war that's coming for them, but it's going to be a battle the likes of which none of them have seen nor heard of since the war ended. They're exceptional men, but they're no commanders, and their rabble of townsfolk are the furthest thing in the world from soldiers. 

Given more time to prepare, and the opportunity to choose their battleground, they could perhaps have held their own. As it is, they have a matter of days, and six month's work couldn't turn Rose Creek into a defensible position. They're going to die here.

The thought haunts him, follows him into sleep and twists his dreams into visions of blood and smoke and devastation and always, always, those great wings drifting like ash over the battlefield. In some he sees his own blank, glassy eyes staring emptily back at him from among the dead. In others, he’s left alone, the sole broken survivor wandering endlessly through the lifeless forms of those he loves. He doesn’t know which is worse.

"They're just dreams, Goody," Billy says softly, patient as the tide. Goodnight looks away. He knows that Billy believes it, but he doesn't have it in him to believe it himself. Not when they've been such a cruel and fitting penance for his sins for so long.

He doesn’t know that he’s ever found himself strung so tight as he does now, panic coiling in closer around him as the inevitable battle draws slowly closer. There’s an ugly pressure building up in his chest, as though every breath he takes is trapped behind his ribs like floodwaters behind a creaking dam. He can’t do this.

Word comes to expect Bogue’s men at dawn, and something in him snaps.

His hands are shaking as he throws his meager possessions carelessly into his saddlebags, the rushing tumult of panic roiling in his skull so beyond reasoned thought that it might almost pass for calm. He feels weak and sick and empty. Of course he’s disgusted by his own cowardice, but shame is an old, familiar companion. What’s one more reason to despise the man he’s become.

He freezes as the door swings open, mortified by the thought of having to explain himself. But of course it’s only Billy; he pauses in the doorway for a long moment before stepping inside, carefully closing the door behind him. Goody shakes himself and returns his attention to packing.

“What are you doing,” Billy says quietly. It’s flat and deceptively calm; not a question. Something in his voice strikes a chill into Goody’s heart.

He doesn’t raise his eyes, half afraid of what he might see should he meet Billy’s gaze, instead keeping them fixed on his task. “We can’t win here,” he mutters as he haphazardly shoves a last few items into the saddlebags. “Not without sacrificing more than victory is worth.”

The silence draws out, heavy and breathless; a slow seed of dread blossoms in the pit of Goody’s stomach as he looks up. Billy is watching him, expression inscrutable as always, eyes cool and distant in a way that sounds a clarion call of alarm in the back of Goody’s head.

“That depends what you think it’s worth,” he replies.

Goody sucks in a sharp, incredulous breath. “Is it worth our lives?” he demands, disbelieving. “This spit of nothing little town?”

Billy’s eyes harden. “Why is it less worth it now than it was a week ago, when you volunteered us for this?”

“I didn’t—” Things have _changed_ since then. Surely Billy can see that. They didn’t know just what they were up against, how hopeless the battle they face truly is. He swallows hard and shakes his head. “We’ve done what we can. Trained them up, built their defenses. How much more difference can two more gunhands truly make against an army?”

“We’re not just two gunhands,” Billy says, unmoved. “You know that.” His arms are folded, his shoulders squared, and for the first time it truly sinks in for Goody that he means to stay. He means to see this fight through to the end. The realisation hits him so hard and fast that he feels dizzy with it, a bitter taste flooding his throat.

He can’t do this. He can’t give himself over to die a futile death here, not when after so long adrift in the dark, he’s found something as rare and precious as what he has in Billy. They can’t martyr themselves for some scrap of nothing frontier town that’ll sink without a ripple when the mine runs dry. There’s so much they’ve yet to have together. It cuts him deeper than any wound he’s ever felt that Billy doesn’t feel the same way.

 _Am I not worth living for?_ he wants to demand, to shout, to _plead_. Is the life and home they’d dreamed they’d build together truly worth so little to Billy, that he’d sacrifice himself so needlessly?

“Please, darlin’.” He’s lived with shame for far too long to be above begging. “Come with me. We don’t have to risk our lives. Not for this.”

He’s prepared to see a lot of things in Billy’s eyes, but not the sudden anger that flares there like a spark in dry summer grass. He’s seen it before, but never like this— never at _him_. Even in his darkest moments he’d never truly believed that he would ever give Billy cause to look at him with such raw, stung _betrayal_ , his voice deadly quiet and shaking with suppressed fury when he finally gathers himself enough to speak.

“ _You_ —” The word turns to poison on his lips, twisted into an insult by the anger on his face and the hurt in his eyes. “—have stood by and watched me risk my life in the quick draw a thousand times, and for what? A little coin? A night of free whiskey?”

Goody flinches from the words as they land like physical blow, shock driving the breath from his lungs. “No,” he says, desperate and disbelieving. The two are nothing alike. One on one in a fair fight, Billy is unparalleled. He never would have dreamed of inciting a contest if he’d thought for even a second that there was a genuine chance Billy might come off the worse; Billy has to know that, he _has_ to believe it. Goody had always thought he did.

“This is different,” he whispers, even those few words sticking in his throat so sharply that he can’t force out any more. He feels as though the ground is crumbling beneath his feet, the foundation on which he’d built everything he has left slipping through his fingers like smoke. 

“Why?” Billy says sharply. “Because now your life is on the line too?”

No wound he’s ever borne has cut him to the quick like this, like hearing every self-loathing doubt he’s ever had of himself echoed back by the love of his life. His gilded tongue fails him in the face of it. Does Billy truly think so little of him? Would it hurt more to think that he’s speaking carelessly now out of anger just to cause hurt, or that every soft reassurance in the years they’ve had together had been nothing more than a platitude?

“Billy—”

“If you’re leaving, then leave,” Billy interrupts, voice harsh in a way Goody’s never heard it before. “We’re better off a man down than counting on cover that won’t come.” 

Goody stiffens, throat tight and eyes stinging. “I never knew hurt would make you so cruel,” he says, voice cracking. Billy doesn’t respond. His back is turned, the line of his shoulders tight and hostile.

He shoulders his saddlebags and walks away in aching silence, a new kind of guilt gnawing at the pit of his stomach. A thousand words are bubbling on his lips, pleas and apologies and stinging retorts, but he swallows them down. He knows in his heart that leaving in silence will be harder to bear than that he left at all, but he knows himself for the coward he is, proven a hundred times over. He hasn’t the strength to be rejected again.

He can feel his mask cracking, that cheap facsimile half a legend he never was and half a man he doesn't remember how to be finally crumbling under the disappointment of those fool enough to have thought there was something better left in him. Sam's convictions are at least easier to bear than the crushing weight of Billy's hurt, furious silence.

He rides out of Rose Creek, and he doesn't look back.


	20. we'll shine like stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _as the water grinds the stone_   
>  _we rise and fall_   
>  _as our ashes turn to dust_   
>  _we'll shine like stars_

By rights he should thunder out of Rose Creek like all the hounds of hell are on his heels. 

He should be fleeing that godforsaken little town like his life depends on putting as much distance between him and it as possible. That's sure as hell what it feels like. The prickling unease of a hunted thing crawls across the back of his neck as he follows the dirt road out into the waving grass. He can feel the weight of phantom eyes on his back, all silent judgement, and everything in him itches to flee it. As though mere miles could lift the weight of his failure. 

But it's dark and the roads are poor, and much as there would be some grand irony in fleeing a death with a measure of pride about it only to have his neck broken by an unseen rabbithole, it's not the way he wants to go. And it's hardly as though there's anything chasing him. Only demons of his own making, and they're nothing if not old companions by now.

The horse, lacking any particular guidance, ambles along the road at her own pace, leaving the lights of the town to slowly fade over the crest of the rolling hills behind him. The vast darkness of the wilderness closes over him like merciless ocean waters over a shipwreck, cold and crushing. The silence all around him is deafening, the dull thud of shod hooves on the dirt all but drowned out by the aching absence of a second set of hoofbeats to echo them. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, he’s truly alone.

He would flee this too, if he could, but weary resignation stills his hand and his spurs. He already knows in his bones that he’ll never outpace the empty space by his side where Billy should be.

A fresh wave of grief wells up chokingly in his throat at the raw wound of the thought, every nerve and sinew in him seized with the pitiful urge to turn back. To try one last time to find the words to convince Billy that they don’t owe these people anything, least of all their deaths. To beg Billy to come with him, to leave with him, to _live_ with him; to keep chasing the beautiful mirage of the home they once imagined they’d share. 

But he won’t. He hasn’t the strength to face that rejection a second time, to look into his lover’s eyes and see nothing but cold determination there. They each made their choice. He wasn’t strong enough to stay, to face the reality of the abrupt, inglorious death waiting for them with the dawn. And Billy wasn’t weak enough to leave.

From the day they met, he’s always been awed and mystified in equal measure by Billy’s unfailing ability to look a cruel truth in the face unflinching. He doesn’t know if he would still have admired it so if he’d known that one day it would break his heart like this.

All around him the grass stirs and sighs, rippling before the breeze. The road unfurls ahead of him like a ribbon over the rolling hills, beckoning him onward; toward what he doesn’t know. It scarcely seems to matter. What difference could it possibly make what lies ahead, when everything he’s ever valued and cared for has been left behind him?

Exhaustion tugs at his eyelids and weighs down his limbs as the night wears on, the landscape around him surreal and distant in the pale moonlight. There’s a cold comfort in the dreamy air of it, as though everything that’s happened might yet turn out to be just another nightmare; one more cruel torment of his wounded conscience, showing him visions of all that he most fears to lose slipping through his fingers. Lord knows he’s visited this moment enough in the haunted limbo of an uneasy sleep.

This is the easy part, he knows; to do nothing but let his horse carry him onward, lost in his own thoughts under the empty sky as the hours crawl by, marked out by the thud of hooves. In the forgiving darkness it could almost not be real. In the darkness, some trembling part of him clings yet to the hope that perhaps this is only another dream of loss, of a hollow space beside him. The hard knowledge of the truth of this is an ephemeral thing still, wafting away like smoke when his churning thoughts stray too close to it.

But the first pale blush of dawn is already beginning to stain the horizon, heralding the coming of the harsh light of day to strip away any comforting illusion. There will come another day after it, and another, an endless hollow parade; each one bringing with it the myriad mundane burdens of sustaining himself. Of carrying on alone, tending to the needs of his body as though he hasn’t so carelessly left his heart and soul back in the charred remains of an unremarkable little mining town.

So much of his life has been predicated on pretending to be someone he isn't, donning the mask of a legend and playing the part of the man he’s expected to be. It’s been a long time since he had nothing else beside that facade, but he still remembers those aching, empty days all too well. He remembers that fragile mask barely concealing the want for nothing more than an end to it one way or the other.

He has lived through that purgatory once, and survived it long enough to find a glimmer of hope; perhaps, in a lighter moment, he might imagine he could do so once more. But he knows better than to indulge himself in such fancies. He carries a deeper and more insidious guilt now, and there will be no-one else to join him on his path. He will not be so fortunate as to find what he had found in Billy again. And nor would he wish to. He would not lessen what they shared by thinking it replaceable.

War makes monsters of all men, he's heard it said. For a long time he’d believed it a lie; believed himself living proof that it does nothing but hollow men out and leave them a pitiful mockery of who they might have been. But here, in the vast silence of the lonely trail, he can’t help but wonder if for all these years he’d merely hidden behind that belief from the truth of what he’d become. What other word than _monster_ is there for a man who’d abandon his love to die alone?

He's lost a lot of beliefs over the years; about people, about the world, about himself. Illusions stripped bare until there was nothing left, dearly held convictions whittled down by time and pain and cruel reality. As he stares unseeing at the distant horizon, there's only one certainty left in his mind. He knows what lies ahead.

The road stretches out before him, empty and endless. He can see it laid out as clear as day, a hard trudge through the mere motions of living, devoid of purpose or joy. There’s no path anymore which leads to the future he’d only so newly, so tentatively, allowed himself to hope for. There’s no path anymore to the dream of the home they’d whispered in the warm haven of their blankets of making together.

Ahead of him is a slow and pitiful descent to worse depths than he’d plumbed even in the hollow days after the end of the war, all the more cruel and bitter now for the memory of what it had been to have something worth living for. Ahead lies the end he’s seen awaiting him for so long, merciless in its patience. It will not spare him a second time.

Behind him is Billy.

Behind him is his heart, his home, the lighthouse that’s guided his weary feet further than he’d ever dreamed he’d have the strength to carry on. Behind him are the shattered pieces of every vow he’s ever made of faith, of love, of trust. No matter how his craven spirit may urge him to flee, his heart can’t help but swing back to Billy, like a compass needle finding north. What use is survival simply for its own sake, if it robs him of the one true thing he’s found?

He’s known in his heart ever since he pressed desperate, trembling fingers to the first bleeding bloom of the bullet scar branded into Billy’s thigh that to lose Billy would break him. Every road away from Rose Creek leads to nothing but a slower death. 

He straightens abruptly in his saddle and tugs sharply on the reins, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. The silence that falls as his horse huffs and comes to a stop is total, blanketing the empty road in a breathless, expectant hush. There is no turning back now from the ledge on which he finds himself standing, alone with the siren song of the void; no secret, hidden path winding along the cliff face. There is nothing left but how he chooses to fall.

If he turns back, if he rides for Rose Creek, he’s going to die there. He knows in his heart that even if they should win this battle, he won’t be one of the lucky few who live to see the end of it. To turn back is to actively pursue his own death, certain as the coming dawn.

And yet.

His eyes are unseeing, fixed on the horizon, caught in some trance as his horse stirs uneasily beneath him. He feels as though he’s been granted a vision, like a weaver lifting his head from his work to finally glimpse for one fleeting moment the full shape of the tapestry. The choking fog of guilt and grief in which he’s been so hopelessly lost fades to wisps on the wind, and through it, he sees the shape of a simple truth that part of him has always known.

Better to go back and die beside Billy than to have to go on without him. 

He swallows hard and wheels his horse before he can second-guess himself, setting his heels to her flanks to urge her back along the road. She surges eagerly forward at the touch, as though the slow trudge toward an empty horizon had sickened her soul as much as it had Goodnight’s. Once again they turn back toward Rose Creek, and part of him wonders if this was always fated to be; if he had no more choice in his path ending here than a falling leaf does as every drift and flutter does nothing but bring it closer to the ground.

He doesn’t know if there’s forgiveness waiting for him, if there’s anything like redemption. But he knows that he can’t live without Billy any more than he could carve his own heart from his chest and carry on. Not any more; not now that he’s built what little strength he has left on the foundation of everything they’ve shared. It was a foolish act of desperation to think even for a moment that to flee from this without Billy by his side would lead to anything but a worse end.

The rising sun is at his back, casting long, streaming shadows ahead of him as the road thunders by. Dawn, they’d said: the attack would come at dawn. More than likely battle has already been joined, the first true test of their hasty preparations. There isn’t a moment to spare. He can only pray that he doesn’t return too late.

Try as he might, he can’t recall with any certainty how late into the night he’d left, how many hours might have passed between then and now. How far had he come, leaving the horse to set her own pace along the road? He doesn’t doubt that he’ll make his way back in a fraction of the time, the dust of his passage billowing out behind him in the bloody light of a red dawn as he urges his horse onwards, but it’s hard to gauge how much ground he has yet to cover. He’d been half in a trance on the way out. And the road looks different in the growing light that it had under the moon.

After the first burst of speed, his horse gradually falls back to a loping canter. Much as the slowing of the pace chafes, he lets her. It will do him no good to drive her to exhaustion miles still from their destination; it will delay him far more to be left with no choice but to walk the rest of the way. Better to save her strength for when the town is in sight.

The road rushes by under him in the growing light of morning, the waving grass haloed in red and gold. His heart is pounding still, his thoughts wheeling like a flock of birds startled into flight by the earth-shattering crack of the choice he’s made. He daren’t contemplate it. If he lets himself focus on anything but the road ahead and the rhythm of his horse’s gait, his nerve might well fail him once more.

The lay of the land begins to grow more familiar as the road winds on, miles eaten up by a steady canter. Until at last the trail crests a hill, and there, beyond the next horizon, he sees a pillar of smoke reaching like a beacon for the sky.

He breathes a fervent curse and snaps the reins, urging his horse back to a gallop. His eyes stay fixed on the smoke ahead. He can smell it now, drifting on the breeze; the sickeningly familiar scent of destruction, of ruin. He doesn’t know if the distant crack of gunfire he’d swear he can hear beyond the pounding of his heart in his ears is real, or simply another echo of the old nightmares sunk so deep into his bones that he can taste them bitter and coppery on his tongue.

He rises up in his stirrups and takes the last mile at a dead run. Had the rattle of gunfire been simply the whispers of his guilty imagination from the crest of the last hill, it matters little; as he draws closer, it’s drowned out by the unmistakable sound of the real thing, ringing out over even the thunder of his horse’s hooves on the road. There’s something feverish burning over his skin, like fire, like falling, like the breathless moment after the bullet before pain rushes in. There can be no turning back now.

With a tug on the reins he pulls his horse up short at the crest of the hill, his breath catching in his throat as he takes in the sight laid before him.

Rose Creek is nothing less than a battlefield. Homes are burning, shapes of fallen men and horses scattered carelessly over the churned earth. The dust of the stolen dynamite still hangs thick and choking in the air, swirling around the dark figures of those combatants yet standing. The fight is raging fiercely in the streets; the defenders seem to be holding their own against the attacking forces thus far, but he can see the men held in reserve on the far side of the town, grouped around a cart carrying—

Ice drops into the pit of his stomach.

There’s a shouted warning on his lips as he thunders into town, rifle at his shoulder and shots flying as he steers his horse with his knees. The townsfolk fight on as he plunges by; clearly frightened, they stand their ground nonetheless with ashen-faced determination. For a fleeting moment he wonders if he’s seeing what Billy saw. 

He sees heads turn as he passes by, sees recognition turn to surprise turn to— nothing else he cares to examine too closely. Any thought for how his return might be received has been driven from his head by the blind panic of the realisation of what they’re about to be hit with. His gaze darts desperately from face to face, seeking out Sam. The word _gatling_ might mean something to some of them, but none of them have seen firsthand what it can do. Not like he and Sam have.

Sam’s eyes, when he meets them from across the street, are every inch as filled with grim fatalism than he might have expected. It still chills him to see it even so; something relentless and implacable as the night frosts that split desert stones that he’s never been equipped to understand. It will take more than this to turn Sam from his course. He doesn’t know if there’s anything left that could.

He swallows hard and spurs his horse on down the street, spreading the warning. He didn’t come back for Sam; even he doesn’t have the brass balls to try and sell that story. He came back for Billy. But it was for Sam that he’d come in the first place, that he’d let them get tangled up in this. Perhaps it’s only fitting that the love and loyalty of these two men who’ve saved him in so many ways long years hence is what brought him here, once and again, to meet his end.

With a tell-tale rattle, the gatling starts to fire. The first hail of bullets crashes into the unprepared town like a hurricane. Goody ducks instinctively down in his saddle, as though he doesn’t know better than to imagine it’ll make a blind bit of difference; divine intervention won’t save him if he crosses that line of fire. He charges on regardless, yelling his throat raw to be heard over the chaos. All they can do is make sure as many people as possible find whatever cover there is to be had.

He swings down from his saddle by the burnt-out shell of the church, herding anyone within earshot to the dubious cover therein. Billy is there — something in Goody’s chest clenches sharply for the sight of him whole and unhurt — along with Faraday and Vasquez, both sporting freely bleeding wounds of varying severity. There are townsfolk too, faces he vaguely recognises attached to names he never learned, all diving to the charred floorboards as the gatling rips through the walls, filling the air with dust and splinters and thin shafts of light streaming in through the fresh bulletholes. 

Hallowed ground won’t be enough to save them. Still, Goody can’t help but whisper a hopeless, fervent prayer, inaudible even to his own ears under the roar of gunfire. For what he doesn’t know. It’s prayer in its purest form; nothing but _please, god, please_. Another chance, another moment, another scrap of luck. Anything. Please.

Silence falls, broken only by the creak of splintered wood and the groans of the dying. 

Goody frantically counts his limbs and, finding himself miraculously undamaged, scrambles to his feet. “They’re reloading!” he yells into the breathless lull. “Stay down, stay down!” Even as he speaks he’s already disregarding his own warning, making with grim purpose for the vantage point of the belltower. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to hit the gatling at this range, or if he’ll be left to helplessly watch the rain of destruction just like at Sharpsburg, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

He catches the rifle Billy throws up to him, his throat far too tight and his heart pounding harder than mere terror could explain. There are a thousand things he wants to say, vows and pleas and apologies; all of them useless. Nothing he could say can change that he left, nor carry more weight than that he came back. Here and now they are beyond any promises.

"I knew you'd come back," Billy says, blood on his skin and some wild light in his eyes. He looks biblical, _beautiful_ , a fallen angel cloaked in ash and dust, and Goodnight feels something fierce and fearless deep inside himself he'd thought long dead surge up to meet him. They're going to die here and it doesn't matter, because here and now, dying with Billy beside him and the screaming at the back of his skull finally silent feels like stepping off the edge of the cliff and finding that he can fly.

The laugh he can feel bubbling up on his lips is a hysterical thing. “Oh you did, did you?” he asks, fingers fumbling through the motions of reloading. “How’d you know that?”

Billy grins, teeth flashing white against the soot smearing his skin as he tugs a familiar flask out from an inner pocket. “You forgot this.”

Something in his chest clenches sharp and painful for the sight of it; for the thought that even after last night, even after the cruel and wounded things they said, Billy had chosen to go into battle carrying the only piece of Goody he had left over his heart. How had he ever thought for even a moment that his place was anywhere other than here.

He takes a deep breath and surges to his feet, sighting along the length of his rifle over the dubious cover of the belltower’s wooden siding. There’s no space to think, to second-guess himself; nothing but the kick of the rifle against his shoulder and the sweep from one target to the next. If he is to die here, he’s going to die proving one last time what it means to face the Angel of Death on the battlefield.

Aim, breathe, fire. There's a ritual in the rhythm, bullets clicking through his fingers like rosary beads as he reloads, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, his hands don't shake.

Up on the hill, the gatling reloads and starts firing again, a hail of bullets tearing indiscriminately through wood and flesh alike as easily as paper. Somewhere in the midst of his own frantic dive for cover, his heart freezes in his chest as he sees Billy jerk as though hit. He breathes another desperate prayer — _please, no, not Billy, not yet_ — and presses deeper into to meager protection of the sandbags, eyes closed tight like a frightened child huddling into their blankets.

The gatling falls silent again, another magazine exhausted. He raises his head, eyes snapping straight to Billy before he even thinks to check himself over. Billy is rubbing at his chest and wincing; he looks pained and winded, but there’s no tell-tale bloom of dark blood. There’s no time to question it, not so long as he’s still fit to fight.

He can hear himself babbling inanely as though from a great distance as they reload, his mouth running away with him as it so often does when he lacks the spare attention to rein it in. He couldn’t have vouched for any of it; all that he knows is the way Billy laughs in response, ragged and hysterical in a way that’s a gasped breath away from tears.

God, he wishes they had more time. He wishes he had just a moment to hold Billy one last time, to kiss him, to whisper a fierce promise of an _I love you_ against his lips. To do anything more than trace the line of his profile with desperate eyes, trying with everything in him to burn that image into his very soul, that he might carry it with him; the sight of his love bloodied and unbowed and beautiful here at the end.

He sucks in a shuddering breath, grips his rifle, and stands.

He can’t hit the men gathered around the gatling from here; at the barest glance it’s clearly beyond the range of his rifle, no doubt a deliberate tactical decision. There’s no way to take it out, not without some poor brave fool riding straight down the maw of the damn thing. He’s seen a lone gatling mow down entire regiments like harvest wheat. So long as it’s out there, they don’t stand a chance. They’ll be torn to pieces.

Clearly, he’s not alone in that realisation. With a yell and a thunder of hooves, Faraday plunges down the main street, blood-soaked shirt flying like a banner. Something twinges sharply in the hollow of Goody’s chest. There have surely been times in the past week when he would have gladly shot the man himself, but here and now, he can’t but feel a little melancholy respect for the choice to at least make his death count for something.

The last of Bogue’s men who’d been spared the indiscriminate kiss of the gatling scramble to follow, hastily mounting any horses they can get their hands on. Goody shoulders his rifle, a fierce determination igniting in his chest as he feels Billy mirror the motion beside him. With every bullet, another pursuer slumps in his saddle or tumbles to the ground, thinning out the pack. 

Every shot counts. They have a matter of seconds before the whole cavalcade is out of range, before this is all for naught. All they can do now is clear Faraday’s path.

Aim, breathe, fire. In all the years since he first sighted down the length of a rifle and steeled himself to take another man’s life, he’s never been so focused on every ripple of the breeze in the grass, every bounce and sway of a horse’s gait and the rider in its saddle. His world is narrowed to nothing but the rhythm of his breathing and the faintest tremor of his hand around the rifle stock, the crack of each shot and the bruising snap of the bolt against his thumbnail. Every fibre of his being is trained to this one, singular purpose.

He whoops triumphantly as the last man falls, something vicious and victorious singing in his veins. Lord above, they might actually do this. He doesn’t have the first goddamn idea what Faraday’s plan is, but if he can just get close enough, cause enough of a disruption to give whoever else is left an opening—

The gatling opens fire again.

For a moment, he wonders if this is to be the end of it, if Faraday is about to be torn to shreds before their eyes. But no. The muzzle of the gun is trained higher. It’s no random spray raking across the town, not this time; whoever is operating the gun knows precisely what they’re aiming for. The hail of gunfire rips through the already battered belltower like divine wrath, biblical in its devastation. 

He jerks and staggers under the force of it, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. The kiss of the bullets feels like cleansing fire, like the blood and pain he could never bring himself to ask Billy to give him, burning through him down to his bones. 

His footing drops out from under him, the ruin of the belltower snatched away somewhere beyond the darkness closing in before his eyes. The Angel of Death is reaching out for him, her shadowy arms spread wide and her skeletal hands welcoming, as the ground rushes up to meet him. There's no pain any more. No fear. Only a terrible, creeping cold.

Their road ends as it was always going to, in fire and blood and the sharp report of gunfire, finally plunging off the cliff edge they've been skirting for so long.

They fall together.


End file.
